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THE  FOUR  HORSEMEN 
OF    THE    APOCALYPSE 


Comments  of  the  Press  on 

The  Four  Horsemen 
of  the  Apocalypse 

By 

Vicente  Bleisco  Ibanez 

"Superlatives  are  boomerangs,  and  enthusiasms  too  often  won't  stand 
recording,  but  .  .  .  the  case  of  Vicente  Blasco  Ibaner's  "The  Pour  Horse- 
men of  the  Apocalypse'  offers  an  exception.  Months  ago  this  tremen- 
dous novel  of  the  war  was  reviewed  from  the  original  on  this  page  with 
many  ardent  superlatives.  Now  it  appears  again  in  the  translation  of 
Charlotte  Brewster  Jordan  .  .  .  and  after  a  second  reading  it  is  possible 
to  notice  it  even  more  enthusiastically.  Certainly  in  it  Ukanez  has  ful- 
filled Sainte  Beuve's  definition  of  what  a  classic  should  be  ...  it  enriches 
the  htmian  mind  and  increases  its  treasure." 

— Detroit  Sunday  News. 

"It  gives  a  new  view  ix>int  from  which  to  see  and  feel  the  war." 

— New  York  Times  Book  Revieto— leading  article. 

"It  is  in  every  page  instinct  with  indescribable  fascination.  .  .  .  Predic- 
tions are  rash,  we  know.  But  we  venture  this,  that  for  portrayal  at  once 
of  the  spirit  and  the  grim  substance  of  war  .  .  .  our  time  will  see  no  more 
convincmg  work  of  genius  than  this." 

— The  Tribune,  New  York. 

"A  much  more  broadly-based  and  at  the  same  time  more  deeply-moving 
story  than  any  which  the  present  reviewer  has  seen.  These  have  seen 
the  war  through  the  eyes  of  their  own  country.  .  .  .  Senor  Ibanez  seems 
to  see  it  through  eyes  that  are  world-wide  in  their  sweep  and  with  a  mind 
that  is  very  human  and  pitiful  in  its  comprehension  of  the  suffering  and 
the  heroism.  .  .  .  'The  Pour  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse'  is  so  far  the 
distinguished  novel  of  the  war." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

The  World  gives  "  'The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse'  preeminent 
place  among  recent  books  of  fiction  as  ...  a  world  romance  which  com- 
pels international  recognition  and  would  receive  it  even  though  its  theme 
were  a  less  gravely  umversal  matter  than  the  great  war." 

"  'The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse'  is  a  great  novel,  one  of  the 
three  of  four  outstanding  novels  of  the  war.  It  is  rich  and  varied  in  scene, 
human  in  its  characterizations,  interesting  throughout,  and,  above  all, 
refreshingly  straightforward  and  conclusive  on  the  subject  of  the  Ger- 
mans and  their  methods  of  warfare." — The  Globe,  New  York. 

"Now,  for  the  first  time,  a  recognized  master  of  fiction,  who  comes  of  a 
nation  that  has  so  far  preserved  its  neutrality,  has  chosen  the  war  for  his 
theme.     It  thus  occupies  a  unique  place  in  war  fiction." 

— Nev>  York  Times  Book  Review — editorial. 

"The  splendid  spirit  of  France  in  the  hour  of  trial  is  the  dominant  note 
in  the  story,  but  the  wild  life  of  the  cattle  herder,  the  careless,  perfumed 
existence  of  the  Frenchman  of  fashion,  the  egotistic  career  of  the  implac- 
able German,  the  prophetic  utterances  of  the  philosophic  Russian  and  a 
thread  of  romance  are  colorful  elements  in  a  perfect  whole." 

— Globe-Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

"Extremely  vivid  ...  a  series  of  war  pictures  unsurpassed  in  the  litera- 
ture of  the  times." — Publisher's  Weekly. 

"Powerful  and  masterful  ...  an  altogether  succesrful  book  by  Spain's 
greatest  novelist." — The  Sum,  New  York. 


THE  FOUR  HORSEMEN 
OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

(LOS  CUATRO  JINETES  DEL  APOCALIPSIS) 
FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF 

VICENTE  BLASCO  IBANEZ 


Authorized  Translation  by 
CHARLOTTE  BREWSTER  JORDAN 


E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 
68i  FIFTH  AVENUE     NEW  YORK 

1919 


Copyright,  1918,  by 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


AU  Rights  Reserved 


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CONTENTS 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Tryst — In  the  Garden  of  the  Expia- 
tory Chapel    3 

II.    Madariaga,  the  Centaur 38 

III.  The  Desnoyers  Family 79 

IV.  The  Cousin  from  Berlin 118 

V.     In  Which  Appear  the  Four  Horsemen  .     .  145 


PART  II 

I.  What  Don  Marcelo  Envied 181 

II.  New  Life 200 

III.  The  Retreat 223 

IV.  Near  the  Sacred  Grotto 264 

V.  The  Invasion 293 

VI.  The  Banner  OF  THE  Red  Cross    ....  352 


I, 

PART  III 
After  the  Marne    .... 

•     387 
4.01 

II. 

In  the  Studio 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

War 

*'  No  One  Will  Kill  Him"      . 
The  Burial  Fields  .... 

«     •     • 

•  •     • 

•  •     • 

.     417 
.     448 
.     46s 

PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  TRYST 
(In  the  Garden  of  the  ChapcUe  Expiatoire) 

They  w«"e  to  have  met  in  the  garden  of  the  ChafeUe 
Expiaioire  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  but  Julio  Des- 
noyers  with  the  impatience  of  a  lover  who  hopes  to  ad- 
vance the  moment  of  meeting  by  presenting  himself  be- 
fore the  appointed  time,  arrived  an  half  hour  earlier.  The 
change  of  the  seasons  was  at  this  time  greatly  confused 
in  his  mind,  and  evidently  demanded  some  readjustment. 

Five  months  had  passed  since  their  last  interview  in 
this  square  had  afforded  the  wandering  lovers  the  refuge 
of  a  damp,  depressing  calmness  near  a  boulevard  of  con- 
tinual movement  close  to  a  great  railroad  station.  The 
hour  of  the  appointment  was  always  five  and  Julio  was 
accustomed  to  see  his  beloved  approaching  by  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  recently  lit  street  lamps,  her  figure  enveloped 
in  furs,  and  holding  her  muff  before  her  face  as  if  it  were 
a  half-mask.  Her  sweet  voice,  greeting  him,  had 
breathed  forth  a  cloud  of  vapor,  white  and  tenuous,  con- 
gealed by  the  cold.  After  various  hesitating  interviews, 
they  had  abandoned  the  garden.  Their  love  had  acquired 
the  majestic  importance  of  acknowledged  fact,  and 
from  five  to  seven  had  taken  refuge  in  the  fifth  floor  of 
the  rue  de  la  Pompe  where  Julio  had  an  artist's  studio. 
The  curtains  well  drawn  over  the  double  glass  windows, 
the  cosy  hearth-fire  sending  forth  its  ruddy  flame  as  the 


4   FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

only  light  of  the  room,  the  monotonous  song  of  the  sam- 
ovar bubbling  near  the  cups  of  tea — all  the  seclusion  of 
life  isolated  by  an  idolizing  love — had  dulled  their  per- 
ceptions to  the  fact  that  the  afternoons  v;ere  grov/ir^ 
longer,  that  outside  the  sun  was  shining  later  and  later 
into  the  pearl-covered  depths  of  the  clouds,  and  that  a 
timid  and  pallid  Spring  was  beginning  to  show  its  green 
finger  tips  in  the  buds  of  the  branches  suffering  the  last 
nips  of  Winter — that  wild,  black  boar  who  so  often 
turned  on  his  tracks. 

Then  Julio  had  made  his  trip  to  Buenos  Aires,  encoun- 
tering in  the  other  hemisphere  the  last  smile  of  Autumn 
and  the  first  icy  winds  from  the  pampas.  And  just  as  his 
mind  was  becoming  reconciled  to  the  fact  that  for  him 
Winter  was  an  eternal  season — since  it  always  came  to 
meet  him  in  his  change  of  domicile  from  one  extreme  of 
the  planet  to  the  other — lo,  Summer  was  unexpectedly 
confronting  him  in  this  dreary  garden! 

A  swarm  of  children  was  racing  and  screaming  through 
the  short  avenues  around  the  monument.  On  entering 
the  place,  the  first  thing  that  Julio  encountered  was  a 
hoop  which  came  rolling  toward  his  legs,  trundled  by  a 
childish  hand.  Then  he  stumbled  over  a  ball.  Around 
the  chestnut  trees  was  gathering  the  usual  warm-weather 
crowd,  seeking  the  blue  shade  perforated  with  points  of 
light.  Many  nursemaids  from  the  neighboring  houses 
were  working  and  chattering  here,  following  with  indif- 
ferent glances  the  rough  games  of  the  children  confided 
to  their  care.  Near  them  were  the  men  who  had  brought 
their  papers  down  into  the  garden  under  the  impression 
that  they  could  read  them  in  the  midst  of  peaceful  groves. 
All  of  the  benches  were  full.  A  few  women  were  occupy- 
ing camp  stools  with  that  feeling  of  superiority  which 
ownership  always  confers.  The  iron  chairs,  "pay-seats," 
were   serving  as   resting  places   for   various   suburban 


THE  TRYST  S 

dames,  loaded  down  with  packages,  who  were  waiting 
for  straggling  members  of  their  families  in  order  to 
take  the  train  in  the  Gare  Saint  Lazare.  .  .  . 

And  Julio,  in  his  special  delivery  letter,  had  proposed 
meeting  in  this  place,  supposing  that  it  would  be  as  little 
frequented  as  in  former  times.  She,  too,  with  the  same 
thoughtlessness,  had  in  her  reply,  set  the  usual  hour  of 
five  o'clock,  believing  that  after  passing  a  few  minutes  in 
the  Printemps  or  the  Galeries  on  the  pretext  of  shopping, 
she  would  be  able  to  slip  over  to  the  unfrequented  garden 
without  risk  of  being  seen  by  any  of  her  numerous  ac- 
quaintances. 

Desnoyers  was  enjoying  an  almost  forgotten  sensation, 
that  of  strolling  through  vast  spaces,  crushing  as  he 
walked  the  grains  of  sand  under  his  feet.  For  the  past 
twenty  days  his  rovings  had  been  upon  planks,  following 
with  the  automatic  precision  of  a  riding  school  the  oval 
promenade  on  the  deck  of  a  ship.  His  feet  accustomed 
to  insecure  ground,  still  were  keeping  on  terra  Urina  a  cer- 
tain sensation  of  elastic  unsteadiness.  His  goings  and 
comings  were  not  awakening  the  curiosity  of  the  people 
seated  in  the  open,  for  a  common  preoccupation  seemed 
to  be  monopolizing  all  the  men  and  women.  The  groups 
were  exchanging  impressions.  Those  who  happened  to 
haw^e  a  paper  in  their  hands,  saw  their  neighbors  ap- 
proaching them  with  a  smile  of  interrogation.  There 
had  suddenly  disappeared  that  distrust  and  suspicion 
which  impels  the  inhabitants  of  large  cities  mutually  to 
ignore  one  another,  taking  each  other's  measure  at  a 
glance  as  though  they  were  enemies. 

"They  are  talking  about  the  war,"  said  Desnoyers  to 
himself.  "At  this  time,  all  Paris  speaks  of  nothing  but 
the  possibility  of  war." 

Outside  of  the  garden  he  could  see  also  the  same  anxi- 
ety which  was  making  those  around  him  so  fraternal  and 


C        FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

sociable.  The  venders  of  newspapers  were  passing 
through  the  boulevard  crjing  the  evening  editions,  their 
furious  speed  repeatedly  slackened  by  the  eager  hands  of 
the  passers-by  contending  for  the  papers.  Eveiy  reader 
was  instantly  surrounded  by  a  group  begging  for  news 
or  trying  to  decipher  over  his  shoulder  the  great  head- 
lines at  the  top  of  the  sheet.  Tn  the  rue  des  Mathurins, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  square,  a  circle  of  workmen  un- 
der the  awning  of  a  tavern  were  listening  to  the  com- 
ments of  a  friend  who  accompanied  his  words  with  ora- 
torical gestures  and  wavings  of  the  paper.  The  traffic  in 
the  streets,  the  general  bustle  of  the  city  was  the  same  as 
in  other  days,  but  it  seemed  to  Julio  that  the  vehicles  were 
whirling  past  more  rapidly,  that  there  was  a  feverish  agi- 
tation in  the  air  and  that  people  were  speaking  and  smil- 
ing in  a  different  way.  The  women  of  the  garden  were 
looking  even  at  him  as  if  they  had  seen  him  in  former 
days.  He  was  able  to  approach  them  and  beg^n  a  con- 
versation without  experiencing  the  slightest  strangeness. 

"They  are  talking  of  the  war,"  he  said  again  but  with 
the  commiseration  of  a  superior  intelligence  which  fore- 
sees the  future  and  feels  above  the  impressions  of  the 
vulgar  crowd. 

He  knew  exactly  what  course  he  was  going  to  follow. 
He  had  disembarked  at  ten  o'clock  the  night  before,  and 
as  it  was  not  yet  twenty-four  hours  since  he  had  touched 
land,  his  mentality  was  still  that  of  a  man  who  comes 
from  afar,  across  oceanic  immensities,  from  boundless 
horizons,  and  is  surprised  at  finding  himself  in  touch 
with  the  preoccupations  which  govern  human  communi- 
ties. After  disembarking  he  had  spent  two  hours  in  a 
cafe  in  Boulogne,  listlessly  watching  the  middle-class 
families  who  passed  their  time  in  the  monotonous  placid- 
ity of  a  life  without  dangers.  Then  the  special  train 
for  the  passengers  from  South  America  had  brought  him 


THE  TRYST  7 

to  Paris,  leaving  him  at  four  in  the  morning  on  a  plat- 
form of  the  Gore  du  Nord  in  the  embrace  of  Pepe  Argen- 
sola,  the  young  Spaniard  whom  he  sometimes  called  "my 
secretary"  or  "my  valet"  because  it  was  difficult  to  define 
exactly  the  relationship  between  them.  In  reality,  he  was 
a  mixture  of  friend  and  parasite,  the  poor  comrade,  com- 
placent and  capable  in  his  companionship  with  a  rich 
youth  on  bad  terms  with  his  family,  sharing  with  him  the 
ups  and  downs  of  fortune,  picking  up  the  crumbs  of 
prosperous  days,  or  inventing  expedients  to  keep  up 
appearances  in  the  hours  of  poverty. 

"What  about  the  war?"  Argensola  had  asked  him  be- 
fore inquiring  about  the  result  of  his  trip.  "You  have 
come  a  long  ways  and  should  know  much." 

Soon  he  was  sound  asleep  in  his  dear  old  bed  while  his 
"secretary"  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  studio  talking  of 
Servia,  Russia  and  the  Kaiser.  This  youth,  too,  skeptical 
as  he  generally  was  about  everything  not  connected  with 
his  own  interests,  appeared  infected  by  the  general  excite- 
ment. 

When  Desnoyers  awoke  he  found  her  note  awaiting 
him,  setting  their  meeting  at  five  that  afternoon  and  also 
containing  a  few  words  about  the  threatened  danger 
which  was  claiming  the  attention  of  all  Paris.  Upon  go- 
ing out  in  search  of  lunch  the  concierge,  on  the  pretext 
of  welcoming  him  back,  had  asked  him  the  war  news. 
And  in  the  restaurant,  the  cafe  and  the  street,  always 
war  .  .  .  the  possibility  of  war  with  Germany.  .  .  . 

Julio  was  an  optimist.  What  did  all  this  restlessness 
signify  to  a  man  who  had  just  been  living  more  than 
twenty  days  among  Germans,  crossing  the  Atlantic  under 
the  flag  of  the  Empire? 

He  had  sailed  from  Buenos  Aires  in  a  steamer  of  the 
Hamburg  line,  the  Koenig  Frederic  August.  The  world 
was  in  blessed  tranquillity  when  the  boat  left  port.    Only 


8        FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  whites  and  half-breeds  of  Mexico  were  exterminating 
each  other  in  conflicts  in  order  that  nobody  might  believe 
that  man  is  an  animal  degenerated  by  peace.  On  the 
rest  of  the  planet,  the  people  were  displaying  unusual 
prudence.  Even  aboard  the  transatlantic  liner,  the  little 
world  of  passengers  of  most  diverse  nationalities  ap- 
peared a  fragment  of  future  society  implanted  by  way 
of  experiment  in  modem  times — a  sketch  of  the  here- 
after, without  frontiers  or  race  antagonisms. 

One  morning  the  ship  band  which  every  Sunday  had 
sounded  the  Choral  of  Luther,  awoke  those  sleeping  in 
the  first-class  cabins  with  the  most  unheard-of  serenade. 
Desnoyers  rubbed  his  eyes  believing  himself  under  the 
hallucinations  of  a  dream.  The  German  horns  were  play- 
ing the  Marseillaise  through  the  corridors  and  decks. 
The  steward,  smiling  at  his  astonishment,  said,  "The 
fourteenth  of  July !"  On  the  German  steamers  they  cele- 
brate as  their  own  the  great  festivals  of  all  the  nations 
represented  by  their  cargo  and  passengers.  Their  cap- 
tains are  careful  to  observe  scrupulously  the  rites  of  this 
religion  of  the  flag  and  its  historic  commemoration.  The 
most  insignificant  republic  saw  the  ship  decked  in  its 
honor,  affording  one  more  diversion  to  help  combat  the 
monotony  oi  the  voyage  and  further  the  lofty  ends  of 
the  Germanic  propaganda.  For  the  first  time  the  great 
festival  of  France  was  being  celebrated  on  a  German 
vessel,  and  whilst  the  musicians  continued  escorting  a 
racy  Marseillaise  in  double  quick  time  through  the  differ- 
ent floors,  the  morning  groups  were  commenting  on  the 
event. 

"What  finesse !"  exclaimed  the  South  American  ladies. 
"These  Germans  are  not  so  phlegmatic  as  they  seem.  It 
is  an  attention  .  .  .  something  very  distinguished.  .  .  . 
Ana  it  is  possible  that  some  still  believe  that  they  and  the 
French  might  come  to  blows?" 


THE  TRYST  9 

The  very  few  Frenchmen  who  were  travelling  on  the 
steamer  found  themselves  admired  as  though  they  had  in- 
creased immeasurably  in  public  esteem.  Ther>-  were  only 
three ; — an  old  jeweller  who  had  been  visiting  his  branch 
shops  in  America,  and  two  demi-mondaines  from  the  rue 
de  la  Pair,  the  most  timid  and  well-behaved  persons 
aboard,  vestals  with  bright  eyes  and  disdainful  noses  who 
held  themselves  stiffly  aloof  in  this  uncongenial  atmos- 
phere. 

At  night  there  was  a  gala  banquet  in  the  dining  room 
at  the  end  of  which  the  French  flag  and  that  of  the  Em- 
pire formed  a  flaunting,  conspicuous  drapery.  All  the  Ger- 
man passengers  were  in  dress  suits,  and  their  wives  were 
wearing  low-necked  gowns.  The  uniforms  of  the  atten- 
dants were  as  resplendent  as  on  a  day  of  a  grand  review. 

During  dessert  the  tapping  of  a  knife  upon  a  glass  re- 
duced the  table  to  sudden  silence.  The  Commandant  was 
going  to  speak.  And  this  brave  mariner  who  united  to 
his  nautical  functions  the  obligation  of  making  harangues 
at  banquets  and  opening  the  dance  with  the  lady  of  most 
importance,  began  unrolling  a  string  of  words  like  the 
noise  of  clappers  between  long  intervals  of  silence.  Des- 
noyers  knew  a  little  German  as  a  souvenir  of  a  visit  to- 
some  relatives  in  Berlin,  and  so  was  able  to  catch  a  few 
words.  The  Commandant  was  repeating  every  few  min- 
utes "peace"  and  "friends."  A  table  neighbor,  a  com- 
mercial commissioner,  offered  his  services  as  interpreter 
to  Julio,  with  that  obsequiousness  which  lives  on  adver- 
tisement. 

"The  Commandant  asks  God  to  maintain  peace  be- 
tween Germany  and  France  and  hopes  that  the  two- 
peoples  will  become  increasingly  friendly." 

Another  orator  arose  at  the  same  table.  He  was  the 
most  influential  of  the  German  passengers,  a  rich  manu- 
facturer from  Dusseldorf  who  had  just  been  visiting  his- 


lo      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

agents  in  America.  He  was  never  mentioned  by  name. 
He  bore  the  title  of  Commercial  Counsellor,  and  among 
his  countrymen  was  always  Herr  Comer sienrath  and  his 
wife  was  entitled  Frau  Rath.  The  Counsellor's  Lady, 
much  younger  than  her  important  husband,  had  from  the 
first  attracted  the  attention  of  Desnoyers.  She,  too,  had 
made  an  exception  in  favor  of  this  young  Argentinian, 
abdicating  her  title  from  their  first  conversation.  "Call 
me  Bertha,"  she  said  as  condescendingly  as  a  duchess  of 
Versailles  might  have  spoken  to  a  handsome  abbot  seated 
at  her  feet.  Her  husband,  also  protested  upon  hearing 
Desnoyers  call  him  "Counsellor,"  like  his  compatriots. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "call  me  'Captain.'  I  command 
a  company  of  the  Landsturm."  And  the  air  with  which 
the  manufacturer  accompanied  these  words,  revealed  the 
melancholy  of  an  unappreciated  man  scorning  the  honors 
he  has  in  order  to  think  only  of  those  he  does  not  possess. 

While  he  was  delivering  his  discourse,  Julio  was  ex- 
amining his  small  head  and  thick  neck  which  g^ve  him  a 
certain  resemblance  to  a  bull  dog.  In  imagination  he  saw 
the  high  and  oppressive  collar  of  a  uniform  making  a 
double  roll  of  fat  above  its  stiff  edge.  The  waxed,  up- 
right moustaches  were  bristling  aggressively.  His  voice 
was  sharp  and  dry  as  though  he  were  shaking  out  his 
words.  .  .  .  Thus  the  Emperor  would  utter  his  ha- 
rangues, so  the  martial  burgher,  with  instinctive  imita- 
tion, was  contracting  his  left  arm,  supporting  his  hand 
upon  the  hilt  of  an  invisible  sword. 

In  spite  of  his  fierce  and  oratorical  gesture  of  com- 
mand, all  the  listening  Germans  laughed  uproariously  at 
his  first  words,  like  men  who  knew  how  to  appreciate  the 
sacrifice  of  a  Herr  Comer  sienrath  when  he  deigns  to 
•divert  a  festivity. 

"He  is  saying  very  witty  things  about  the  French/* 


THE  TRYST  tr 

volunteered  the  interpreter  in  a  low  voice,  "but  they  are 
not  offensive." 

Julio  had  guessed  as  much  upon  hearing  repeatedly  the 
word  Franzosen.  He  almost  understood  what  the  orator 
was  saying — "Franzosen — great  children,  light-hearted, 
amusing,  improvident.  The  things  that  they  might  do  to- 
gether if  they  would  only  forget  past  grudges !"  The  at- 
tentive Germans  were  no  longer  laughing.  The  Counsel- 
lor was  laying  aside  his  irony,  that  grandiloquent,  crush- 
ing irony,  weighing  many  tons,  as  enormous  as  a  ship. 
Then  he  began  unrolling  the  serious  part  of  his  harangue,, 
so  that  he  himself,  was  also  greatly  affected. 

"He  says,  sir,"  reported  Julio's  neighbor,  "that  he 
wishes  France  to  become  a  very  great  nation  so  that  some 
day  we  may  march  together  against  other  enemies  .  .  ► 
against  others!" 

And  he  winked  one  eye,  smiling  maliciously  with  that 
smile  of  common  intelligence  which  this  allusion  to  the 
mysterious  enemy  always  awakened. 

Finally  the  Captain-Counsellor  raised  his  glass  in  a 
toast  to  France.  "Hoch!"  he  yelled  as  though  he  were 
commanding  an  evolution  of  his  soldierly  Reserves. 
Three  times  he  sounded  the  cry  and  all  the  German  con- 
tingent springing  to  their  feet,  responded  with  a  lusty 
Hoch  while  the  band  in  the  corridor  blared  forth  the 
Marseillaise. 

Desnoyers  was  greatly  moved.  Thrills  of  enthusiasm 
were  coursing  up  and  down  his  spine.  His  eyes  became 
so  moist  that,  when  drinking  his  champagne,  he  almost 
believed  that  he  had  swallowed  some  tears.  He  bore  a 
French  name.  He  had  French  blood  in  his  veins,  and) 
this  that  the  gringoes  were  doing — although  generally 
they  seemed  to  him  ridiculous  and  ordinary — was  really 
worth  acknowledging.    The  subjects  of  the  Kaiser  cele- 


12      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

brating  the  great  date  of  the  Revolution!  He  believed 
that  he  was  witnessing  a  great  historic  event. 

"Very  well  done !"  he  said  to  the  other  South  Ameri- 
cans at  the  near  tables.  "We  must  admit  that  they  have 
done  the  handsome  thing." 

Then  with  the  vehemence  of  his  twenty-seven  years,  he 
accosted  the  jeweller  in  the  passage  way,  reproaching  him 
for  his  silence.  He  was  the  only  French  citizen  aboard. 
He  should  have  made  a  few  words  of  acknowledgment. 
The  fiesta  was  ending  awkwardly  through  his  fault. 

"And  why  have  you  not  spoken  as  a  son  of  France?" 
retorted  the  jeweller. 

"I  am  an  Argentinian  citizen,"  replied  Julio. 

And  he  left  the  older  man  believing  that  he  ought  to 
have  spoken  and  making  explanations  to  those  around 
him.  It  was  a  very  dangerous  thing,  he  protested,  to 
meddle  in  diplomatic  affairs.  Furthermore,  he  had  not 
instructions  from  his  government.  And  for  a  few  hours 
he  believed  that  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  playing  a 
great  role  in  history. 

Desnoyers  passed  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  the  smok- 
ing room  attracted  thither  by  the  presence  of  the  Coun- 
sellor's Lady.  The  Captain  of  the  Landsturm,  sticking  a 
preposterous  cigar  between  his  moustachios,  was  playing 
poker  with  his  countrymen  ranking  next  to  him  in  dignity 
and  riches.  His  wife  stayed  beside  him  most  of  the 
time,  watching  the  goings  and  comings  of  the  stewards 
carrying  great  bocks,  without  daring  to  share  in  this  tre- 
mendous consumption  of  beer.  Her  special  preoccupa- 
tion was  to  keep  vacant  near  her  a  seat  which  Desnoyers 
might  occupy.  She  considered  him  the  most  distin- 
guished man  on  board  because  he  was  accustomed  to  tak- 
ing champagne  with  all  his  meals.  He  was  of  medium 
height,  a  decided  brunette,  with  a  small  foot,  which 
obliged  her  to  tuck  hers  under  her  skirts,  and  a  triangular 


THE  TRYST  13 

face  under  two  masses  of  hair,  straight,  black  and  glossy 
as  lacquer,  the  very  opposite  of  the  type  of  men  about 
her.  Besides,  he  was  living  in  Paris,  in  the  city  which 
she  had  never  seen  after  numerous  trips  in  both  hemi- 
spheres. 

"Oh,  Paris !  Paris !"  she  sighed,  opening  her  eyes  and 
pursing  her  lips  in  order  to  express  her  admiration  when 
she  was  speaking  alone  to  the  Argentinian.  "How  I 
should  love  to  go  there!" 

And  in  order  that  he  might  feel  free  to  tell  her  things 
about  Paris,  she  permitted  herself  certain  confidences 
about  the  pleasures  of  Berlin,  but  with  a  blushing  mod- 
esty, admitting  in  advance  that  in  the  world  there  was 
more — much  more — ^that  she  wished  to  become  ac- 
quainted with. 

While  pacing  around  the  Chapelle  Expiatoire,  Julio  re- 
called with  a  certain  remorse  the  wife  of  Counsellor  Erck- 
mann.  He  who  had  made  the  trip  to  America  for  a 
woman's  sake,  in  order  to  collect  money  and  marry  her ! 
Then  he  immediately  began  making  excuses  for  his  con- 
duct. Nobody  was  going  to  know.  Furthermore  he  did 
not  pretend  to  be  an  ascetic,  and  Bertha  Erckmann  was 
certainly  a  tempting  adventure  in  mid-ocean.  Upon  re- 
calling her,  his  imagination  always  saw  a  race  horse — 
large,  spare,  roan  colored,  and  with  a  long  stride.  She 
was  an  up-to-date  German  who  admitted  no  defect  in  her 
country  except  the  excessive  weight  of  its  women,  com- 
bating in  her  person  this  national  menace  with  every 
known  system  of  dieting.  For  her  every  meal  was  a 
species  of  torment,  and  the  procession  of  bocks  in  the 
smoking  room  a  tantalizing  agony.  The  slenderness 
achieved  and  maintained  by  will  power  only  made  more 
prominent  the  size  of  her  frame,  the  powerful  skeleton 
with  heavy  jaws  and  large  teeth,  strong  and  dazzling, 


14      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

which  perhaps  suggested  Desnoyers'  disrespectful  com- 
parison. "She  is  thin,  but  enormous,  nevertheless !"  was 
always  his  conclusion. 

But  then,  he  considered  her,  notwithstanding,  the  most 
distinguished  woman  on  board — distinguished  for  the  sea 
— elegant  in  the  style  of  Munich,  with  clothes  of  inde- 
scribable colors  that  suggested  Persian  art  and  the 
vignettes  of  mediaeval  manuscripts.  The  husband  ad- 
mired Bertha's  elegance,  lamenting  her  childlessness  in 
secret,  almost  as  though  it  were  a  crime  of  high  treason. 
Germany  was  magnificent  because  of  the  fertility  of  its 
women.  The  Kaiser,  with  his  artistic  hyperbole,  had  pro- 
claimed that  the  true  German  beauty  should  have  a  waist 
measure  of  at  least  a  yard  and  a  half. 

When  Desnoyers  entered  into  the  smoking  room  in 
order  to  take  the  seat  which  Bertha  had  reserved  for  him, 
her  husband  and  his  wealthy  hangers-on  had  their  pack 
of  cards  lying  idle  upon  the  green  felt.  Herr  Rath  was 
continuing  his  discourse  and  his  listeners,  taking  their 
cigars  from  their  mouths,  were  emitting  grunts  of  appro- 
bation. The  arrival  of  Julio  provoked  a  general  smile  of 
amiability.  Here  was  France  coming  to  fraternize  with 
them.  They  knew  that  his  father  was  French,  and  that 
fact  made  him  as  welcome  as  though  he  came  in  direct 
line  from  the  palace  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  representing 
the  highest  diplomacy  of  the  Republic.  The  craze  for 
proselyting  made  them  all  promptly  concede  to  him  un- 
limited importance. 

"We,"  continued  the  Counsellor  looking  fixedly  at  Des- 
noyers as  if  he  were  expecting  a  solemn  declaration  from 
him,  "we  wish  to  live  on  good  terms  with  France." 

The  youth  nodded  his  head  so  as  not  to  appear  inat- 
tentive. It  appeared  to  him  a  very  good  thing  that  these 
peoples  should  not  be  enemies,  and  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, they  might  affirm  this  relationship  as  often  as  they 


THE  TRYST  15 

wished ;  the  only  thing  that  was  interesting  him  just  at 
that  time  was  a  certain  knee  that  was  seeking  his  under 
the  table,  transmitting  its  gentle  warmth  through  a  double 
curtain  of  silk. 

*'But  France,"  complained  the  manufacturer,  "is  most 
unresponsive  towards  us.  For  many  years  past,  our  Em- 
peror has  been  holding  out  his  hand  with  noble  loyalty, 
but  she  pretends  not  to  see  it.  .  .  ,  That,  you  must  ad- 
mit, is  not  as  it  should  be." 

Just  here  Desnoyers  believed  that  he  ought  to  say 
something  in  order  that  the  spokesman  might  not  divine 
his  more  engrossing  occupation. 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  doing  enough.  If,  first  of  all,  you 
would  return  that  which  you  took  away  from  France!" 

Stupefied  silence  followed  this  remark,  as  if  the  alarm 
signal  had  sounded  through  the  boat.  Some  of  those  who 
were  about  putting  their  cigars  in  their  mouths,  remained 
with  hands  immovable  within  two  inches  of  their  lips, 
their  eyes  almost  popping  out  of  their  heads.  But  the 
Captain  of  the  Landsturm  was  there  to  formulate  their 
mute  protest. 

"Return!"  he  said  in  a  voice  almost  extinguished  by 
the  sudden  swelling  of  his  neck.  "We  have  nothing  to 
return,  for  we  have  taken  nothing.  That  which  we  pos- 
sess, we  acquire  by  our  heroism." 

The  hidden  knee  with  its  agreeable  friction  made  itself 
more  insinuating,  as  though  counselling  the  youth  to 
greater  prudence. 

"Do  not  say  such  things,"  breathed  Bertha,  "thus  only 
the  republicans,  corrupted  by  Paris,  talk.  A  youth  so  dis- 
tinguished who  has  been  in  Berlin,  and  has  relatives  in 
Germany!"  .  .  . 

But  Desnoyers  felt  a  hereditary  impulse  of  aggressive- 
ness before  each  of  her  husband's  statements,  enunciated 
in  haughty  tones,  and  responded  coldly : — 


I6   FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"It  is  as  if  I  should  take  your  watch  and  then  propose 
that  we  should  be  friends,  forgetting  the  occurrence.  Al- 
though you  might  forget,  the  first  thing  for  me  tr  do» 
would  be  to  return  the  watch." 

Counsellor  Erckmann  wished  to  retort  with  so  many- 
things  at  once  that  he  stuttered  horribly,  leaping  from  one 
idea  to  the  other.  To  compare  the  reconquest  of  Alsace 
to  a  robbery.  A  German  country!  The  race  .  .  .  the 
language  .  .  .  the  history!  .  .  . 

"But  when  did  they  announce  their  wish  to  be  Ger- 
man?" asked  the  youth  without  losing  his  calmness.. 
"When  have  you  consulted  their  opinion?" 

The  Counsellor  hesitated,  not  knowing  whether  to  ar- 
gue with  this  insolent  fellow  or  crush  him  with  his  scorn. 

"Young  man,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking^ 
about,"  he  finally  blustered  with  withering  contempt. 
"You  are  an  Argentinian  and  do  not  understand  the 
affairs  of  Europe." 

And  the  others  agreed,  suddenly  repudiating  the  citizen- 
ship which  they  had  attributed  to  him  a  little  while  be- 
fore. The  Counsellor,  with  military  rudeness,  brusquely 
turned  his  back  upon  him,  and  taking  up  the  pack,  dis- 
tributed the  cards.  The  game  was  renewed.  Desnoyers,. 
seeing  himself  isolated  by  the  scornful  silence,  felt  greatly 
tempted  to  break  up  the  playing  by  violence ;  bu  the  hid- 
den knee  continued  counselling  self-control,  and  an  in- 
visible hand  had  sought  his  right,  pressing  it  sweetly. 
That  was  enough  to  make  him  recover  his  serenity.  The 
Counsellor's  Lady  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the  progress 
of  the  game.  He  also  looked  on,  a  malignant  smile  con- 
tracting slightly  the  lines  of  his  mouth  as  he  was  men- 
tally ejaculating  by  way  of  consolation,  "Captain,  Cap- 
tain !  .  .  .     You  little  know  what  is  awaiting  you !" 

On  terra  £rma,  he  would  never  again  have  approached 
these  men;  but  life  on  a  transatlantic  liner,  with  its  in- 


THE  TRYST  17 

evitable  promiscuousness,  obliges  forget  fulness.  Thj?  fol- 
lowing day  the  Counsellor  and  his  friends  came  in  search? 
of  him,  flattering  his  sensibilities  by  erasing  every  irritat- 
ing memory.  He  was  a  distinguished  youth  belonging  to 
a  wealthy  family,  and  all  of  them  had  shogs  and  business 
in  his  country.  The  only  thing  was  that  he  should  be 
careful  not  to  mention  his  French  origin.  He  was  an 
Argentinian;  and  thereupon,  the  entire  chorus  interested 
itself  in  the  grandeur  of  his  country  and  all  the  nations 
of  South  America  where  they  had  agencies  or  invest- 
ments— exaggerating  its  importance  as  though  its  petty 
republics  were  great  powers,  commenting  with  gravity 
upon  the  deeds  and  words  of  its  political  leaders  and 
giving  him  to  understand  that  in  Germany  there  was  no 
one  who  was  not  concerned  about  the  future  of  South 
America,  predicting  for  all  its  divisions  most  glorious 
prosperity — a  reflex  of  the  Empire,  always  provided,  of 
course,  that  they  kept  under  Germanic  influence. 

In  spite  of  these  flatteries,  Desnoyers  was  no  longer 
presenting  himself  with  his  former  assiduity  at  the  hour 
of  poker.  The  Counsellor's  wife  was  retiring  to  her  state- 
room earlier  than  usual — their  approach  to  the  Equator 
inducing  such  an  irresistible  desire  for  sleep,  that  she  had 
to  abandon  her  husband  to  his  card  playing.  Julio  also 
had  mysterious  occupations  which  prevented  his  appear- 
ance on  deck  until  after  midnight.  With  the  precipitation 
of  a  man  who  desires  to  be  seen  in  order  to  avoid  suspi- 
cion, he  was  accustomed  to  enter  the  smoking  room  talk- 
ing loudly  as  he  seated  himself  near  the  husband  and  his 
boon  companions. 

The  game  had  ended,  and  an  orgy  'of  beer  and  fat 
cigars  from  Hamburg  was  celebrating  the  success  of  the 
winners.  It  was  the  hour  of  Teutonic  expansion,  of  inti- 
macy among  men,  of  heavy,  sluggish  jokes,  of  off-color 
stories.    The  Counsellor  was  presiding  with  much  majes- 


i8      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSii 

ty  over  the  diableries  of  his  chums,  prudent  business  men 
from  the  Hanseatic  ports  who  had  big  accounts  in  the 
Deutsche  Bank  or  were  shopkeepers  installed  in  the  re- 
public of  the  La  Plata,  with  an  innumerable  family.  He 
was  a  warrior,  a  captain,  and  on  applauding  every  heavy 
jest  with  a  laugh  that  distended  his  fat  neck,  he  fancied 
that  he  was  among  his  comrades  at  arms. 

In  honor  of  the  South  Americans  who,  tired  of  pacing 
the  deck,  had  dropped  in  to  hear  what  the  gringoes  were 
saying,  they  were  turning  into  Spanish  the  witticisms  and 
licentious  anecdotes  awakened  in  the  memory  by  a  super- 
abundance of  beer.  Julio  was  marvelling  at  the  ready 
laugh  of  all  these  men.  While  the  foreigners  were  re- 
maining unmoved,  they  would  break  forth  into  loud 
horse-laughs  throwing  themselves  back  in  their  seats. 
And  when  the  German  audience  was  growing  cold,  the 
story-teller  would  resort  to  an  infallible  expedient  to 
remedy  his  lack  of  success : — 

"They  told  this  yam  to  the  Kaiser,  and  when  the 
Kaiser  heard  it  he  laughed  heartily." 

It  was  not  necessary  to  say  more.  They  all  laughed 
then.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  with  a  spontaneous  roar  but  a  short 
one,  a  laugh  in  three  blows,  since  to  prolong  it,  might  be 
interpreted  as  a  lack  of  respect  to  His  Majesty. 

As  they  neared  Europe,  a  batch  of  news  came  to  meet 
the  boat.  The  employees  in  the  wireless  telegraphy  office 
were  working  incessantly.  One  night,  on  entering  the 
smoking  room,  Desnoyers  saw  the  German  notables  ges- 
ticulating with  animated  countenances.  They  were  no 
longer  drinking  beer.  They  had  had  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne uncorked,  and  the  Counsellor's  Lady,  much  im- 
pressed, had  not  retired  to  her  stateroom.  Captain 
Erckmann,  spying  the  young  Argentinian,  offered  him  a 
glass. 


THE  TRYST  19 

"It  is  war,"  he  shouted  with  enthusiasm.  "War  at 
last.  .  .  .     The  hour  has  come !" 

Desnoyers  made  a  gesture  of  astonishment.  War !  .  .  . 
What  war  ?  .  .  .  Like  all  the  others,  he  had  read  on  the 
news  bulletin  outside  a  radiogram  stating  that  the  Aus- 
trian government  had  just  sent  an  ultimatum  to  Servia; 
but  it  made  not  the  slightest  impression  on  him,  for  he 
was  not  at  all  interested  in  the  Balkan  affairs.  Those  were 
but  the  quarrels  of  a  miserable  little  nation  monopolizing 
the  attention  of  the  world,  distracting  it  from  more  worth- 
while matters.  How  could  this  event  concern  the  martial 
Counsellor?  The  two  nations  would  soon  come  to  an 
understanding.  Diplomacy  sometimes  amounted  to  some- 
thing. 

"No,"  insisted  the  German  ferociously.  "It  is  war, 
blessed  war.  Russia  will  sustain  Servia,  and  we  will  sup- 
port our  ally.  .  .  .  What  will  France  do?  Do  you  know 
what  France  will  do?"  .  .  . 

Julio  shrugged  his  shoulders  testily  as  though  asking 
to  be  left  out  of  all  international  discussions. 

"It  is  war,"  asserted  the  Counsellor,  "the  preventive 
war  that  we  need.  Russia  is  growing  too  fast,  and  is 
preparing  to  fight  us.  Four  years  more  of  peace  and  she 
will  have  finished  her  strategic  railroads,  and  her  military 
power,  united  to  that  of  her  allies,  will  be  worth  as  much 
as  ours.  It  is  better  to  strike  a  powerful  blow  now.  It 
is  necessary  to  take  advantage  of  this  opportunity.  .  .  . 
War.     Preventive  war!" 

All  his  clan  were  listening  in  silence.  Some  did  not  ap- 
pear to  feel  the  contagion  of  his  enthusiasm.  War !  .  .  . 
In  imagination  they  saw  their  business  paralyzed,  their 
agencies  bankrupt,  the  banks  cutting  down  credit  ...  a 
catastrophe  more  frightful  to  them  than  the  slaughters  li 
battles.  But  they  applauded  with  nods  and  grunts  all  oi 
Erckmann's  ferocious  demonstrations.     He  was  a  Herr 


20      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Rath,  and  an  officer  besides.  He  must  be  in  the  secrets 
of  the  destiny  of  his  country,  and  that  was  enough  to 
make  them  drink  silently  to  the  success  of  the  war. 

Julio  thought  that  the  Counsellor  and  his  admirers  must 
be  drunk.  "Look  here,  Captain,"  he  said  in  a  conciliatory 
tone,  "what  you  say  lacks  logic.  How  could  war  possibly 
be  acceptable  to  industrial  Germany?  Every  moment  its 
business  is  increasing,  every  month  it  conquers  a  new 
market  and  every  year  its  commercial  balance  soars  up- 
ward in  unheard  of  proportions.  Sixty  years  ago,  it  had 
to  man  its  boats  with  Berlin  hacks  drivers  arrested  by  the 
police.  Now  its  commercial  fleets  and  war  vessels  cross 
all  oceans,  and  there  is  no  port  where  the  German  mer- 
chant marine  does  not  occupy  the  greatest  part  of  the 
docks.  It  would  only  be  necessary  to  continue  living  in 
this  way,  to  put  yourselves  beyond  the  exigencies  of  war ! 
Twenty  years  more  of  peace,  and  the  Germans  would  be 
lords  of  the  world's  commerce,  conquering  England,  the 
former  mistress  of  the  seas,  in  a  bloodless  struggle.  And 
are  they  going  to  risk  all  this — like  a  gambler  who  stakes 
his  entire  fortune  on  a  single  card — in  a  struggle  that 
might  result  unfavorably?"  .  .  . 

"No,  war,"  insisted  the  Counsellor  furiously,  "preven- 
tive war.  We  live  surrounded  by  our  enemies,  and  this 
state  of  things  cannot  go  on.  It  is  best  to  end  it  at  once. 
Either  they  or  we !  Germany  feels  herself  strong  enough 
to  challenge  the  world.  We've  got  to  put  an  end  to  this 
Russian  menace!  And  if  France  doesn't  keep  herself 
quiet,  so  much  the  worse  for  her !  .  .  .  And  if  anyone 
else  .  .  .  anyone  dares  to  come  in  against  us,  so  much  the 
worse  for  him !  When  I  set  up  a  new  machine  in  my 
shops,  it  is  to  make  it  produce  unceasingly.  We  possess 
the  finest  army  in  the  world,  and  it  is  necessary  to  give  it 
exercise  that  it  may  not  rust  out." 

He  then  continued  with  heavy  emphasis,  "They  have 


THE  TRYST  21 

put  a  band  of  iron  around  us  in  order  to  throttle  us.  But 
Germany  has  a  strong  chest  and  has  only  to  expand  in 
order  to  burst  its  bands.  We  must  awake  before  they 
manacle  us  in  our  sleep.  Woe  to  those  who  then  oppose 
us!  .  .  ." 

Desnoyers  felt  obliged  to  reply  to  this  arrogance.  He 
had  never  seen  the  iron  circle  of  which  the  Germans  were 
complaining.  The  nations  were  merely  unwilling  to  con- 
tinue living,  unsuspecting  and  inactive,  before  boundless 
German  ambition.  They  were  simply  preparing  to  defend 
themselves  against  an  almost  certain  attack.  They  wished 
to  maintain  their  dignity,  repeatedly  violated  under  most 
absurd  pretexts. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  not  the  others,"  he  concluded,  "who 
are  obliged  to  defend  themselves  because  you  represent  a 
menace  to  the  world!" 

An  invisible  hand  sought  his  under  the  table,  as  it  had 
some  nights  before,  to  recommend  prudence ;  but  now  he 
clasped  it  forcibly  with  the  authority  of  a  right  acquired. 

"Oh,  sir!"  sighed  the  sweet  Bertha,  "to  talk  like  that,  a 
3'outh  so  distinguished  who  has  .  .  ." 

She  was  not  able  to  finish,  for  her  husband  interrupted. 
They  were  no  longer  in  American  waters,  and  the  Coun- 
sellor expressed  himself  with  the  rudeness  of  a  master 
of  his  house. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you,  young  man,"  he  said, 
imitating  the  cutting  coldness  of  the  diplomats,  "that  you 
are  merely  a  South  American  and  know  nothing  of  the 
affairs  of  Europe," 

He  did  not  call  him  an  "Indian,"  but  Julio  heard  the 
implication  as  though  he  had  used  the  word  itself.  Ah, 
if  that  hidden  handclasp  had  not  held  him  with  its  senti- 
mental thrills!  .  .  .  But  this  contact  kept  him  calm  and 
even  made  him  smile.  "Thanks,  Captain,"  he  said  to  him- 
self.    "It  is  the  least  you  can  do  to  get  even  with  me !" 


22      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Here  his  relations  with  the  German  and  his  clientele 
canie  to  an  end.  The  merchants,  as  they  approached 
nearer  and  nearer  to  their  native  land,  began  casting  off 
that  servile  desire  of  ingratiating  themselves  which  they 
had  assumed  in  all  their  trips  to  the  new  world.  They 
now  had  more  important  things  to  occupy  them.  The 
telegraphic  service  was  working  without  cessation.  The 
Commandant  of  the  vessel  was  conferring  in  his  apart- 
ment with  the  Counsellor  as  his  compatriot  of  most  im- 
portance. His  friends  were  hunting  out  the  most  obscure 
places  in  order  to  talk  confidentially  with  one  another. 
Even  Bertha  commenced  to  avoid  Desnoyers.  She  was 
still  smiling  distantly  at  him,  but  that  smile  was  more  of 
a  souvenir  than  a  reality. 

Between  Lisbon  and  the  coast  of  England,  Julio  spoke 
with  her  husband  for  the  last  time.  Every  morning  was 
appearing  on  the  bulletin  board  the  alarming  news  trans- 
mitted by  radiograph.  The  Empire  was  arming  itself 
against  its  enemies.  God  would  punish  them,  making  all 
manner  of  troubles  fall  upon  them.  Desnoyers  was  mo- 
tionless with  astonishment  before  the  last  piece  of  news — 
"Three  hundred  thousand  revolutionists  are  now  besieg- 
ing Paris.  The  suburbs  are  beginning  to  burn.  The  hor- 
rors of  the  Commune  have  broken  out  again." 

"My,  but  these  Germans  have  gone  mad!"  exclaimed 
the  disgusted  youth  to  the  curious  group  surrounding  the 
radio-sheet.  "We  are  going  to  lose  the  little  sense  that 
we  have  left!  .  .  .  What  revolutionists  are  they  talking 
about  ?  How  could  a  revolution  break  out  in  Paris  if  the 
men  of  the  government  are  not  reactionary?" 

A  gruff  voice  sounded  behind  him,  rude,  authoritative, 
as  if  trying  to  banish  the  doubts  of  the  audience.  It  was 
the  Herr  Comer zienrath  who  was  speaking. 

"Young  man,  these  notices  are  sent  us  by  the  first 
agencies  of  Germany  .  .  .  and  Germany  never  lies." 


THE  TRYST  2$ 

After  this  affirmation,  he  turned  his  back  upon  them 
and  they  saw  him  no  more. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  last  day  of  the  voyage, 
Desnoyers'  steward  awoke  him  in  great  excitement. 
"Herr,  come  up  on  deck !  a  most  beautiful  spectacle !" 

The  sea  was  veiled  by  the  fog,  but  behind  its  hazy  cur- 
tains could  be  distinguished  some  silhouettes  like  islands 
with  g^eat  towers  and  sharp,  pointed  minarets.  The 
islands  were  advancing  over  the  oily  waters  slowly  and 
majestically,  with  impressive  dignity.  Julio  counted 
eighteen.  They  appeared  to  fill  the  ocean.  It  was  the 
Channel  Fleet  which  had  just  left  the  English  coast  by 
Government  order,  sailing  around  simply  to  show  its 
strength.  Seeing  this  procession  of  dreadnoughts  for  the 
first  time,  Desnoyers  was  reminded  of  a  flock  of  marine 
monsters,  and  gained  a  better  idea  of  the  British  power. 
The  German  ship  passed  among  them,  shrinking,  humili- 
ated, quickening  its  speed.  "One  might  suppose,"  mused 
the  youth,  "that  she  had  an  uneasy  conscience  and  wished 
to  scud  to  safety."  A  South  American  passenger  near 
him  was  jesting  with  one  of  the  Germans,  "What  if  they 
have  already  declared  war!  .  .  .  What  if  they  should 
make  us  prisoners!" 

After  midday,  they  entered  Southampton  roads.  The 
Frederic  August  hurried  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  transacted  business  with  dizzying  celerity.  The  cargo 
of  passengers  and  baggage  was  enormous.  Two  launches 
approached  the  transatlantic  and  discharged  an  avalanche 
of  German  residents  in  England  who  invaded  the  decks 
with  the  joy  of  those  who  tread  friendly  soil,  desiring  to 
see  Hamburg  as  soon  as  possible.  Then  the  boat  sailed 
through  the  Channel  with  a  speed  most  unusual  in  these 
places. 

The  people,  leaning  on  the  railing,  were  commenting  on 
the  extraordinary  encounters  in  this  marine  boulevard. 


24      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

usually  frequented  by  ships  of  peace.  Certain  smoke 
lines  on  the  horizon  were  from  the  French  squadron  car- 
rying  President  Poincare  who  was  returning  from  Russia. 
The  European  alarm  had  interrupted  his  trip.  Then  they 
saw  more  English  vessels  patrolling  the  coast  line  like  ag- 
gressive and  vigilant  dogs.  Two  North  American  battle- 
ships could  be  distinguished  by  their  mast-heads  in  the 
form  of  baskets.  Then  a  Russian  battleship,  white  and 
;glistening,  passed  at  full  steam  on  its  way  to  the  Baltic. 
""Bad!"  said  the  South  American  passengers  regretfully. 
■**Very  bad !  It  looks  this  time  as  if  it  were  going  to  be 
:serious!"  and  they  glanced  uneasily  at  the  neighboring 
coasts  on  both  sides.  Although  they  presented  the  usual 
appearance,  behind  them,  perhaps,  a  new  period  of  his- 
tory was  in  the  making. 

The  transatlantic  was  due  at  Boulogne  at  midnight 
where  it  was  supposed  to  wait  until  daybreak  to  discharge 
its  passengers  comfortably.  It  arrived,  nevertheless,  at 
ten,  dropped  anchor  outside  the  harbor,  and  the  Com- 
mandant gave  orders  that  the  disembarkation  should  take 
place  in  less  than  an  hour.  For  this  reason  they  had 
quickened  their  speed,  consuming  a  vast  amount  of  extra 
coal.  It  was  necessary  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible, 
seeking  the  refuge  of  Hamburg.  The  radiographic  ap- 
paratus had  evidently  been  working  to  some  purpose. 

By  the  glare  of  the  bluish  searchlights  which  were 
spreading  a  livid  clearness  over  the  sea,  began  the  unload- 
ing of  passengers  and  baggage  for  Paris,  from  the  trans- 
atlantic into  the  tenders.  "Hurry!  Hurry  1"  The  sea- 
men were  pushing  forward  the  ladies  of  slow  step  who 
were  recounting  their  valises,  believing  that  they  had  lost 
some.  The  stewards  loaded  themselves  up  with  babies  as 
though  they  were  bundles.  The  general  precipitation  dis- 
sipated the  usual  exaggerated  and  oily  Teutonic  amiabil- 
ity.   "They  are  regular  bootlickers,"  thought  Desnoyers. 


THE  TRYST  25 

"They  believe  that  their  hour  of  triumph  has  come,  and 
do  not  think  it  necessary  to  pretend  any  longer."  .  .  . 

He  was  soon  in  a  launch  that  was  bobbing  up  and  down 
on  the  waves  near  the  black  and  immovable  hulk  of  the 
great  liner,  dotted  with  many  circles  of  light  and  filled 
with  people  waving  handkerchiefs.  Julio  recognized 
Bertha  who  was  waving  her  hand  without  seeing  him, 
without  knowing  in  which  tender  he  was,  but  feeling 
obliged  to  show  her  gratefulness  for  the  sweet  memories 
that  now  were  being  lost  in  the  mystery  of  the  sea  and 
the  night.    "Adieu,  Frau  Rath!" 

The  distance  between  the  departing  transatlantic  and 
the  lighters  was  widening.  As  though  it  had  been  await- 
ing this  moment  with  impunity,  a  stentorian  voice  on  the 
upper  deck  shouted  with  a  noisy  guffaw,  "See  you  later  I 
Soon  we  shall  meet  you  in  Paris !"  And  the  marine 
band,  the  very  same  band  that  three  days  before  had  as- 
tonished Desnoyers  with  its  unexpected  Marseillaise^ 
burst  forth  into  a  military  march  of  the  time  of  Frederick 
the  Great — a  march  of  grenadiers  with  an  accompani- 
ment of  trumpets. 

That  had  been  the  night  before.  Although  twenty- four 
hours  had  not  yet  passed  by,  Desnoyers  was  already  con- 
sidering it  as  a  distant  event  of  shadowy  reality.  His 
thoughts,  always  disposed  to  take  the  opposite  side,  did 
not  share  in  the  general  alarm.  The  insolence  of  the 
Counsellor  now  appeared  to  him  but  the  boastings  of  a 
burgher  turned  into  a  soldier.  The  disquietude  of  the 
people  of  Paris,  was  but  the  nervous  agitation  of  a  city 
which  lived  placidly  and  became  alarmed  at  the  first  hint 
of  danger  to  its  comfort.  So  many  times  they  had  spoken 
of  an  immediate  war,  always  settling  things  peacefully 
at  the  last  moment!  .  .  .  Furthermore  he  did  not  want 
war  to  come  because  it  would  upset  all  his  plans  for  the 
future;  and  the  man  accepted  as  logical  and  reasonable 


26      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

everything  that  suited  his  selfishness,  placing  it  above 
reality. 

"No,  there  will  not  be  war,"  he  repeated  as  he  con- 
tinued pacing  up  and  down  the  garden.  "These  people 
are  beside  themselves.  How  could  a  war  possibly  break 
out  in  these  days?"  .  .  . 

And  after  disposing  of  his  doubts,  which  certainly 
would  in  a  short  time  come  up  again,  he  thought  of  the 
joy  of  the  moment,  consulting  his  watch.  Five  o'clock! 
She  might  come  now  at  any  minute !  He  thought  that  he 
recognized  her  afar  off  in  a  lady  who  was  passing 
through  the  grating  by  the  rue  Pasquier.  She  seemed  to 
him  a  little  different,  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  possibly 
the  Summer  fashions  might  have  altered  her  appearance. 
But  soon  he  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  She  was 
not  alone,  another  lady  was  with  her.  They  were  perhaps 
English  or  North  American  women  who  worshipped  the 
memory  of  Marie  Antoinette  and  wished  to  visit  the 
Chapelle  Expiatoire,  the  old  tomb  of  the  executed  queen. 
Julio  watched  them  as  they  climbed  the  flights  of  steps 
and  crossed  the  interior  patio  in  which  were  interred  the 
eight  hundred  Swiss  soldiers  killed  in  the  attack  of  the 
Tenth  of  August,  with  other  victims  of  revolutionary 
fury. 

Disgusted  at  his  error,  he  continued  his  tramp.  His  ill 
humor  made  the  monument  with  which  the  Bourbon  res- 
toration had  adorned  the  old  cemetery  of  the  Madeleine, 
appear  uglier  than  ever  to  him.  Time  was  passing,  but 
she  did  not  come.  Every  time  that  he  turned,  he  looked 
hungrily  at  the  entrances  of  the  garden.  And  then  it 
happened  as  in  all  their  meetings.  She  suddenly  appeared 
as  if  she  had  fallen  from  the  sky  or  risen  up  from  the 
ground,  like  an  apparition.  A  cough,  a  slight  rustling  of 
footsteps,  and  as  he  turned,  Julio  almost  collided  with  her. 

"Marguerite !     Oh,  Marguerite !"  .  .  . 


THE  TRYST  27 

It  was  she,  and  yet  he  was  slow  to  recognize  her.  He 
felt  a  certain  strangeness  in  seeing  in  full  reality  the 
countenance  which  had  occupied  his  imagination  for 
three  months,  each  time  more  spirituelle  and  shadowy 
with  the  idealism  of  absence.  But  his  doubts  were  of 
short  duration.  Then  it  seemed  as  though  time  and  space 
were  eliminated,  that  he  had  not  made  any  voyage,  and 
but  a  few  hours  had  intervened  since  their  last  interview. 

Marguerite  divined  the  expansion  which  might  follow 
Julio's  exclamations,  the  vehement  hand-clasp,  perhaps 
something  more,  so  she  kept  herself  calm  and  serene. 

"No;  not  here,"  she  said  with  a  grimace  of  repug- 
nance. "What  a  ridiculous  idea  for  us  to  have  met 
here!" 

They  were  about  to  seat  themselves  on  the  iron  chairs, 
in  the  shadow  of  some  shrubbery,  when  she  rose  sudden- 
ly. Those  who  were  passing  along  the  boulevard  might 
see  them  by  merely  casting  their  eyes  toward  the  garden. 
At  this  time,  many  of  her  friends  might  be  passing 
through  the  neighborhood  because  of  its  proximity  to  the 
big  shops.  .  .  .  They,  therefore,  sought  refuge  at  a  cor- 
ner of  the  monument,  placing  themselves  between  it  and 
the  rue  des  Mathurins.  Desnoyers  brought  two  chairs 
near  the  hedge,  so  that  when  seated  they  were  invisible  to 
those  passing  on  the  other  side  of  the  railing.  But  this 
was  not  solitude.  A  few  steps  away,  a  fat,  nearsighted 
man  was  reading  his  paper,  and  a  group  of  women  were 
chatting  and  embroidering.  A  woman  with  a  red  wig 
and  two  dogs — some  housekeeper  who  had  come  down 
into  the  garden  in  order  to  give  her  pets  an  airing — 
passed  several  times  near  the  amorous  pair,  smiling  dis- 
creetly. 

"How  annoying!"  groaned  Marguerite.  "Why  did  we 
ever  come  to  this  place!" 


28      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

The  two  scrutinized  each  other  carefully,  wishing  to 
see  exactly  what  transformation  Time  had  wrought. 

"You  are  darker  than  ever,"  she  said.  "You  look  like 
a  man  of  the  sea." 

Julio  was  finding  her  even  lovelier  than  before,  and 
felt  sure  that  possessing  her  was  well  worth  all  the  con- 
trarieties which  had  brought  about  his  trip  to  South 
America.  She  was  taller  than  he,  with  an  elegantly  pro- 
portioned slenderness.  "She  has  the  musical  step,"  Des- 
noyers  had  told  himself,  when  seeing  her  in  his  imagina- 
tion ;  and  now,  on  beholding  her  again,  the  first  thing  that 
he  admired  was  her  rhythmic  tread,  light  and  graceful 
as  she  passed  through  the  garden  seeking  another  seat. 
Her  features  were  not  regular  but  they  had  a  piquant 
fascination — a  true  Parisian  face.  Everything  that  had 
been  invented  for  the  embellishment  of  feminine  charm 
was  used  about  her  person  with  the  most  exquisite  fas- 
tidiousness. She  had  always  lived  for  herself.  Only  a 
few  months  before  had  she  abdicated  a  part  of  this  sweet 
selfishness,  sacrificing  reunions,  teas,  and  calls  in  order 
to  give  Desnoyers  some  of  the  afternoon  hours. 

Stylish  and  painted  like  a  priceless  doll,  with  no  loftier 
ambition  than  to  be  a  model,  interpreting  with  personal 
elegance  the  latest  confections  of  the  modistes,  she  was 
at  last  experiencing  the  same  preoccupations  and  joys  as 
other  women,  creating  for  herself  an  inner  life.  The 
nucleus  of  this  new  life,  hidden  under  her  former 
frivolity,  was  Desnoyers.  Just  as  she  was  imagining  that 
she  had  reorganized  her  existence — adjusting  the  satis- 
factions of  worldly  elegance  to  the  delights  of  love  in 
intimate  secrecy — a  fulminating  catastrophe  (the  inter- 
vention of  her  husband  whose  possible  appearance  she 
seemed  to  have  overlooked)  had  disturbed  her  thought- 
less happiness.  She  who  was  accustomed  to  think  herself 
the  centre  of  the  universe,  imagining  that  events  ought 


THE  TRYST  29 

to  revolve  around  her  desires  and  tastes,  had  suffered 
this  cruel  surprise  with  more  astonishment  than  grief. 

"And  you,  how  do  you  think  I  look?"  Marguerite 
queried. 

"I  must  tell  you  that  the  fashion  has  changed.  The 
sheath  skirt  has  passed  away.  Now  it  is  worn  short 
and  with  more  fullness." 

Desnoyers  had  to  interest  himself  in  her  apparel  with 
the  same  devotion,  mixing  his  appreciation  of  the  latest 
freak  of  the  fashion-monger  with  his  eulogies  of  Mar- 
guerite's beauty. 

"Have  you  thought  much  about  me?"  she  continued. 
"You  have  not  been  unfaithful  to  me  a  single  time? 
Not  even  once  ?  .  .  .  Tell  me  the  truth ;  you  know  I  can 
always  tell  when  you  are  lying." 

"I  have  always  thought  of  you,"  he  said  putting  his 
hand  on  his  heart,  as  if  he  were  swearing  before  a  judge. 

And  he  said  it  rovmdly,  with  an  accent  of  truth,  since 
in  his  infidelities — now  completely  forgotten — the  mem- 
ory of  Marguerite  had  always  been  present. 

"But  let  us  talk  about  you !"  added  Julio.  "What  have 
you  been  doing  all  the  time?" 

He  had  brought  his  chair  nearer  to  hers,  and  their 
knees  touched.  He  took  one  of  her  hands,  patting  it  and 
putting  his  finger  in  the  glove  opening.  Oh,  that  ac- 
cursed garden  which  would  not  permit  greater  intimacy 
and  obliged  them  to  speak  in  a  low  tone,  after  three 
months'  absence!  ...  In  spite  of  his  discretion,  the 
man  who  was  reading  his  paper  raised  his  head  and 
looked  irritably  at  them  over  his  spectacles  as  though  a 
fly  were  distracting  him  with  its  buzzing.  .  .  .  The  very 
idea  of  talking  love-nonsense  in  a  public  garden  when 
all  Europe  was  threatened  with  calamity! 

Repelling  the  audacious  hand,  Marguerite  spoke  tran- 
quilly of  her  existence  during  the  last  months. 


30      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"I  have  passed  my  life  the  best  I  could,  but  I  have  been 
greatly  bored.  You  know  that  I  am  now  living  with 
mama,  and  mama  is  a  lady  of  the  old  regime  who  does 
not  understand  our  tastes.  I  have  been  to  the  theatres 
with  my  brother.  I  have  made  many  calls  on  the  lawyer 
in  order  to  learn  the  progress  of  my  divorce  and  hurry 
it  along  .  .  .  and  nothing  else," 

"And  your  husband?* 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  him.  Do  you  want  to?  I  pity 
the  poor  man!  So  good  ...  so  correct.  The  lawyer 
assures  me  that  he  agrees  to  everything  and  will  not 
im/ose  any  obstacles.  They  tell  me  that  he  does  not 
come  to  Paris,  that  he  lives  in  his  factory.  Our  old 
home  is  closed.  There  are  times  when  I  feel  remorseful 
over  the  way  I  have  treated  him." 

"And  I  ?'  queried  Julio,  withdrawing  his  hand. 

"You  are  right,"  she  returned  smiling.  "You  are  Life. 
It  is  cruel  but  it  is  human.  We  have  to  live  our  lives 
without  taking  others  into  consideration.  It  is  necessary 
to  be  selfish  in  order  to  be  happy." 

The  two  remained  silent.  The  remembrance  of  the 
husband  had  swept  across  them  like  a  glacial  blast.  Julio 
was  the  first  to  brighten  up. 

"And  you  have  not  danced  in  all  this  time?" 

"No,  how  could  I  ?  The  very  idea,  a  woman  in  divorce 
proceedings !  .  .  .  I  have  not  been  to  a  single  chic  party 
since  you  went  away.  I  wanted  to  preserve  a  certain  de- 
corous mourning  fiesta.  How  horrible  it  was!  ...  It 
needed  you,  the  Master!" 

They  had  again  clasped  hands  and  were  smiling. 
Memories  of  the  previous  months  were  passing  before 
their  eyes,  visions  of  their  life  from  five  to  seven  in  the 
afternoon,  dancing  in  the  hotels  of  the  Champs  Elysees 
where  the  tango  had  been  inexorably  associated  with  ^ 
cup  of  tea. 


THE  TRYST  31 

She  appeared  to  tear  herself  away  from  these  recollec- 
tions, impelled  by  a  tenacious  obsession  which  had 
slipped  from  her  mind  in  the  first  moments  of  their 
meeting. 

"Do  you  know  much  about  what's  happening?  Tell 
me  all.  People  talk  so  much.  .  .  .  Do  you  really  believe 
that  there  will  be  war?  Don't  you  think  that  it  will  all 
end  in  some  kind  of  settlement?" 

Desnoyers  comforted  her  with  his  optimism.  He  did 
not  believe  in  the  possibility  of  a  war.  That  was  ridicu- 
lous. 

"I  say  so,  too!  Ours  is  not  the  epoch  of  savages.  I 
have  known  some  Germans,  chu:  and  well-educated  per- 
sons who  surely  must  think  exactly  as  we  do.  An  old 
professor  who  comes  to  the  house  was  explaining  yes- 
terday to  mama  that  wars  are  no  longer  possible  in  these 
progressive  times.  In  two  months'  time,  there  would 
scarcely  be  any  men  left,  in  three,  the  world  would  find 
itself  without  money  to  continue  the  struggle.  I  do  not 
recall  exactly  how  it  was,  but  he  explained  it  all  very 
clearly,  in  a  manner  most  delightful  to  hear." 

She  reflected  in  silence,  trying  to  co-ordinate  her  con- 
fused recollections,  but  dismayed  by  the  effort  required, 
added  on  her  own  account. 

"Just  imagine  what  war  would  mean — ^how  horrible! 
Society  life  paralyzed.  No  more  parties,  nor  clothes,  nor 
theatres !  Why,  it  is  even  possible  that  they  might  not 
design  any  more  fashions !  All  the  women  in  mourning. 
Can  you  imagine  it  ?  .  .  .  And  Paris  deserted.  .  .  .  How 
beautiful  it  seemed  as  I  came  to  meet  you  this  after- 
noon! .  .  .  No,  no,  it  cannot  be!  Next  month,  you 
know,  we  go  to  Vichy.  Mama  needs  the  waters.  Then 
to  Biarritz.  After  that,  I  shall  go  to  a  castle  on  the 
Loire.  And  besides  there  are  our  affairs,  my  divorce, 
our  marriage  which  may  take  place  the  next  year.  .  .  . 


^^       FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THF   APOCALYPSE 

And  is  war  to  hinder  and  cut  short  all  this !  No,  no,  it  is 
not  possible.  My  brother  and  others  like  him  are  fool- 
ish enough  to  dream  of  danger  from  Germany.  I  am 
sure  that  my  husband,  too,  who  is  only  interested  in  seri- 
ous and  bothersome  matters,  is  among  those  who  believe 
that  war  is  imminent  and  prepare  to  take  part  in  it. 
What  nonsense !  Tell  me  that  it  is  all  nonsense.  I  need 
to  hear  you  say  it." 

Tranquilized  by  the  affirmations  of  her  lover,  she  then 
changed  the  trend  of  the  conversation.  The  possibility 
of  their  approaching  marriage  brought  to  mind  the  object 
of  the  voyage  which  Desnoyers  had  just  made.  There 
had  not  been  time  for  them  to  write  to  each  other  during 
their  brief  separation. 

"Did  you  succeed  in  getting  the  money?  The  joy  of 
seeing  you  made  me  forget  all  about  such  things.  .  .  ." 

Adopting  the  air  of  a  business  expert,  he  replied  that 
he  had  brought  back  less  than  he  expected,  for  he  had 
found  the  country  in  the  throes  of  one  of  its  periodical 
panics;  but  still  he  had  managed  to  get  together  about 
four  hundred  thousand  francs.  In  his  purse  he  had  a 
check  for  that  amount.  Later  on,  they  would  send  him 
further  remittances.  A  ranchman  in  Argentina,  a  sort 
of  relative,  was  looking  after  his  affairs.  Marguerite 
appeared  satisfied,  and  in  spite  of  her  frivolity,  adopted 
the  air  of  a  serious  woman. 

"Money,  money!"  she  exclaimed  sententiously.  "And 
yet  there  is  no  happiness  without  it !  With  your  four  hun- 
dred thousand  and  what  I  have,  we  shall  be  able  to  get 
along.  ...  I  told  you  that  my  husband  wishes  to  give 
me  back  my  dowrj'.  He  has  told  my  brother  so.  But 
the  state  of  his  business,  and  the  increased  size  of  his 
factory  do  not  permit  him  to  return  it  as  quickly  as  he 
would  like.     I  can't  help  but   feel   sorry   for  the  poor 


THE  TRYST  3J 

man  ...  so  honorable  and  so  upriglu  in  every  way.  If 
he  only  were  not  so  commonplace !  .  .  ." 

Again  Marguerite  seemed  to  regret  these  tardy  spon- 
taneous eulogies  which  were  chilHng  their  interview.  So 
again  she  changed  the  trend  €►£  her  chatter 

"And  your  family?    Have  you  seen  them?"  .  .  . 

Desnoyers  had  been  to  his  father's  home  before  start- 
ing for  the  Chapelle  Expiatoire.  A  stealthy  entrance 
into  the  great  house  on  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo,  and  then 
up  to  the  first  floor  like  a  tradesman.  Then  he  had  slipt 
into  the  kitchen  like  a  soldier  sweetheart  of  the  maids. 
His  mother  had  come  there  to  embrace  him,  poor  Dofia 
Luisa,  weeping  and  kissing  him  frantically  as  though 
she  had  feared  to  lose  him  forever.  Qose  behind  her 
mother  had  come  Luisita,  nicknamed  Chichi,  who  always 
surveyed  him  with  sympathetic  curiosity  as  if  she  wished 
to  know  better  a  brother  so  bad  and  adorable  who  had 
led  decent  women  from  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  com- 
mitted all  kinds  of  follies.  Then  Desnoyers  had  been 
greatly  surprised  to  see  entering  the  kitchen  with  the  air 
of  a  tragedy  queen,  a  noble  mother  of  the  drama,  his 
Aunt  Elena,  the  one  who  had  married  a  German  and 
was  living  in  Berlin  surrounded  with  innumerable  chil- 
dren. 

"She  has  been  in  Paris  a  month.  She  is  going  to  make 
a  little  visit  to  our  castle.  And  it  appears  that  her  eldest 
son — ^my  cousin,  'The  Sage,'  whom  I  have  not  seen  for 
years — is  also  coming  here." 

The  home  interview  had  several  times  been  interrupted 
by  fear.  "Your  father  is  at  home,  be  careful,"  his  mother 
had  said  to  him  each  time  that  he  had  spoken  above  a 
whisper.  And  his  Aunt  Elena  had  stationed  herself  at 
the  door  with  a  dramatic  air,  like  a  stage  heroine  re- 
solved to  plunge  a  dagger  into  the  tyrant  who  should 
dare  to  cross  the  threshold.    The  entire  family  was  ac- 


34      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

customed  to  submit  to  the  rigid  authority  of  Don  Mar- 
celo  Desnoyers.  "Oh,  that  old  man!"  exclaimed  Julio, 
referring  to  his  father.  "He  may  live  many  years  yet, 
but  how  he  weighs  upon  us  all  1" 

His  mother,  who  had  never  wearied  of  looking  at  him. 
finally  had  to  bring  the  interview  to  an  end,  frightened  by 
certain  approaching  sounds.  "Go,  he  might  surprise  us, 
and  he  would  be  furious."  So  Julio  had  fled  the  paternal 
home,  caressed  by  the  tears  of  the  two  ladies  and  the 
admiring  glances  of  Chichi,  by  turns  ashamed  and  proud 
of  a  brother  who  had  caused  such  enthusiasm  and  scan- 
dal among  her  friends. 

Marguerite  also  spoke  of  Senor  Desnoyers.  A  terrible 
tyrant  of  the  old  school  with  whom  they  could  never 
come  to  an  understanding. 

The  two  remained  silent,  looking  fixedly  at  each  other. 
Now  that  they  had  said  the  things  of  greatest  urgency, 
present  interests  became  more  absorbing.  More  immedi- 
ate things,  unspoken,  seemed  to  well  up  in  their  timid  and 
vacillating  eyes,  before  escaping  in  the  form  of  words. 
They  did  not  dare  to  talk  like  lovers  here.  Every  minute 
the  cloud  of  witnesses  seemed  increasing  around  them. 
The  woman  with  the  dogs  and  the  red  wig  was  passing 
with  greater  frequency,  shortening  her  turns  through  the 
square  in  order  to  greet  them  with  a  smile  of  complicity. 
The  reader  of  the  daily  paper  was  now  exchanging  views 
with  a  friend  on  a  neighboring  bench  regarding  the  possi- 
bilities of  war.  The  garden  had  become  a  thoroughfare. 
The  modistes  upon  going  out  from  their  establishments, 
and  the  ladies  returning  from  shopping,  were  crossing 
through  the  square  in  order  to  shorten  their  walk.  The 
little  avenue  was  a  popular  short-cut.  All  the  pedes- 
trians were  casting  curious  glances  at  the  elegant  lady 
and  her  companion  seated  in  the  shadow  of  the  shrub- 
berv  with  the  timid  yet  would-be  natural  look  of  those 


THE  TRYST  35 

who  desire  to  hide  themselves,  yet  at  the  same  time  feign 
a  casual  air. 

"How  exasperating!"  sighed  Marguerite.  "They  are 
going  to  find  us  out!" 

A  girl  looked  at  her  so  searchingly  that  she  thought 
she  recognized  in  her  an  employee  of  a  celebrated 
modiste.  Besides,  some  of  her  personal  friends  who  had 
met  her  in  the  crowded  shops  but  an  hour  ago  might  be 
returning  home  by  way  of  the  garden. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  said  rising  hurriedly,  "li  they  should 
spy  us  here  together,  just  think  what  they  might  say !  .  .  . 
and  just  when  they  are  becoming  a  little  forgetful !" 

Desnoyers  protested  crossly.  Go  away?  .  .  .  Paris 
had  become  a  shrunken  place  for  them  nowadays  because 
Marguerite  refused  to  go  to  a  single  place  where  there 
was  a  possibility  of  their  being  surprised.  In  another 
square,  in  a  restaurant,  wherever  they  might  go — they 
would  run  the  same  risk  of  being  recognized.  She  would 
only  consider  meetings  in  public  places,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time,  dreaded  the  curiosity  of  the  people.  If 
Marguerite  would  like  to  go  to  his  studio  of  such  sweet 
memories!  .  .  . 

"To  your  home  ?  No !  no  indeed !"  she  replied  em- 
phatically.    "I  cannot  forget  the  last  time  I  was  there." 

But  Julio  insisted,  foreseeing  a  break  in  that  firm  nega- 
tive. Where  could  they  be  more  comfortable?  Besides, 
weren't  they  going  to  marry  as  soon  as  possible?  .  .  . 

"I  tell  you  no,"  she  repeated.  "Who  knows  but  my 
husband  may  be  watching  me !  What  a  complication  for 
my  divorce  if  he  should  surprise  us  in  your  house!" 

Now  it  was  he  who  eulogized  the  husband,  insisting 
that  such  watchfulness  was  incompatible  with  his  char- 
acter. The  engineer  had  accepted  the  facts,  consider- 
ing them  irreparable  and  was  now  thinking  only  of 
reconstructing  his  life. 


36      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"No,  it  is  better  for  us  to  separate,"  she  continued. 
"To-morrow  we  shall  see  each  other  ag^in.  You  will 
hunt  a  more  favorable  place.  Think  it  over,  and  you 
will  find  a  solution  for  it  all." 

But  he  wished  an  immediate  solution.  They  had 
abandoned  their  seats,  going  slowly  toward  the  rue  des 
Mathurins.  Julio  was  speaking  with  a  trembling  and 
persuasive  eloquence.  To-morrow?  No,  now.  They 
had  only  to  call  a  taxicab.  It  would  be  only  a  matter 
of  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  isolation,  the  mystery, 
the  return  to  a  sweet  past — to  that  intimacy  in  the 
studio  where  they  had  passed  their  happiest  hours.  They 
would  believe  that  no  time  had  elapsed  since  their  first 
meetings. 

"No,"  she  faltered  with  a  weakening  accent,  seeking  a 
last  resistance.  "Besides,  your  secretary  might  be  there, 
that  Spaniard  who  lives  with  you.  How  ashamed  I  would 
be  to  meet  him  again!" 

Julio  laughed.  .  .  .  Argensola !  How  could  that  com- 
rade who  knew  all  about  their  past  be  an  obstacle?  If 
they  should  happen  to  meet  him  in  the  house,  he  would 
be  sure  to  leave  immediately.  More  than  once,  he  had 
had  to  go  out  so  as  not  to  be  in  the  way.  His  discre- 
tion was  such  that  he  had  foreseen  events.  Probably 
he  had  already  left,  conjecturing  that  a  near  visit  would 
be  the  most  logical  thing.  His  chum  would  simply  go 
wandering  through  the  streets  in  search  of  news. 

Marguerite  was  silent,  as  though  yielding  on  seeing 
her  pretexts  exhausted.  Desnoyers  was  silent,  too,  con- 
struing her  stillness  as  assent.  They  had  left  the  gar- 
den and  she  was  looking  around  uneasily,  terrified  to 
find  herself  in  the  open  street  beside  her  lover,  and 
seeking  a  hiding-place.  Suddenly  she  saw  before  her 
the  little  red  door  of  an  automobile,  opened  by  the  hand 
of  her  adorer. 


THE  TRYST  37 

"Get  in,"  ordered  Julio. 

And  she  climbed  in  hastily,  anxious  to  hide  herself  as 
soon  as  possible.  The  vehicle  started  at  great  speed. 
Marguerite  immediately  pulled  down  the  shade  of  the 
window  on  her  side,  but  before  she  had  finished  and 
could  turn  her  head,  she  felt  a  hungry  mouth  kissing 
the  nape  of  her  neck. 

"No,  not  here,"  she  said  in  a  pleading  tone.  "Let  us 
be  sensible !" 

And  while  he,  rebellious  at  these  exhortations,  per- 
sisted in  his  advances,  the  voice  of  Marguerite  again 
sounded  above  the  noise  of  the  rattling  machinery  of  the 
automobile  as  it  bounded  over  the  pavement. 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  there  will  be  no  war? 
Do  you  believe  that  we  will  be  able  to  marry?  .  .  .  Tell 
me  again.  I  want  you  to  encourage  me,  ...  I  need  to 
hear  it  from  your  lips." 


CHAPTER  II 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR 


In  1870  Marcelo  Desnoyers  was  nineteen  years  old. 
He  was  born  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  an  only  child ;  his 
father,  interested  in  little  building  speculations,  main- 
tained his  family  in  modest  comfort.  The  mason  wished 
to  make  an  architect  of  his  son,  and  Marcelo  was  in 
the  midst  of  his  preparatory  studies  when  his  father 
suddenly  died,  leaving  his  affairs  greatly  involved.  In 
a  few  months,  he  and  his  mother  descended  the  slopes 
of  ruin,  and  were  obliged  to  give  up  their  snug,  middle- 
class  quarters  and  live  like  laborers. 

When  the  fourteen-year-old  boy  had  to  choose  a  trade, 
he  learned  wood  carving.  This  craft  was  an  art  related 
to  the  tastes  awakened  in  Marcelo  by  his  abandoned 
studies.  His  mother  retired  to  the  country,  living  with 
some  relatives  while  the  lad  advanced  rapidly  in  the 
shops,  aiding  his  master  in  all  the  important  orders  which 
he  received  from  the  provinces.  The  first  news  of  the 
war  with  Prussia  surprised  him  in  Marseilles,  working 
on  the  decorations  of  a  theatre. 

Marcelo  was  opposed  to  the  Empire  like  all  the  youths 
of  his  generation.  He  was  also  much  influenced  by  the 
older  workmen  who  had  taken  part  in  the  Republic  of 
'48,  and  who  still  retained  vivid  recollections  of  the 
Coup  d'Etat  of  the  second  of  December. 

One  day  he  saw  in  the  streets  of  Marseilles  a  popular 
manifestation  in  favor  of  peace  which  was  practically  a 

38 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  39: 

protest  against  the  government.  The  old  republicans 
in  their  implacable  struggle  with  the  Emperor,  the  com- 
panies of  the  International  which  had  just  been  organ- 
ized, and  a  great  number  of  Italians  and  Spaniards  who 
had  fled  their  countries  on  account  of  recent  insurrec- 
tions, composed  the  procession.  A  long-haired,  consump- 
tive student  was  carrying  the  flag.  "It  is  peace  that  we 
want — a  peace  which  may  unite  all  mankind,"  chanted 
the  paraders.  But  on  this  earth,  the  noblest  proposi- 
tions are  seldom  heard,  since  Destiny  amuses  herself  in: 
perverting  them  and  turning  them  aside. 

Scarcely  had  the  friends  of  peace  entered  the  rue 
Cannehiere  with  their  hymn  and  standard,  when  war 
came  to  meet  them,  obliging  them  to  resort  to  fist  and 
club.  The  day  before,  some  battalions  of  Zouaves  from 
Algiers  had  disembarked  in  order  to  reinforce  the  army 
on  the  frontier,  and  these  veterans,  accustomed  to  co- 
lonial existence  and  undiscriminating  as  to  the  cause  of 
disturbances,  seized  the  opportunity  to  intervene  in  this- 
manifestation,  some  with  bayonets  and  others  with  un- 
girded  belts.  "Hurrah  for  War!"  and  a  rain  of  lashes 
and  blows  fell  upon  the  unarmed  singers.  Marcelo  saw 
the  innocent  student,  the  standard-bearer  of  peace,, 
knocked  down  wrapped  in  his  flag,  by  the  merry  kicks 
of  the  Zouaves.  Then  he  knew  no  more,  since  he  had 
received  various  blows  with  a  leather  strap,  and  a  knife 
thrust  in  his  shoulder;  he  had  to  run  the  same  as  the 
others. 

That  day  developed  for  the  first  time,  his  fiery,  stub- 
born character,  irritable  before  contradiction,  even  to  the 
point  of  adopting  the  most  extreme  resolution.  "Down 
with  War!"  Since  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  pro- 
test in  any  other  way,  he  would  leave  the  country.  The 
Emperor  might  arrange  his  affairs  as  best  he  could.  The 
struggle  was  going  to  be  long  and  disastrous,  according. 


40      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

to  the  enemies  of  the  Empire.  If  he  stayed,  he  would 
in  a  few  months  be  drawn  for  the  soldiery.  Desnoyers 
renounced  the  honor  of  serving  the  Emperor.  He  hesi- 
tated a  little  when  he  thought  of  his  mother.  But  his 
country  relatives  would  not  turn  her  out,  and  he  planned 
to  work  very  hard  and  send  her  money.  Who  knew 
what  riches  might  be  waiting  for  him,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  sea!  .  .  .  Good-bye,  France! 

Thanks  to  his  savings,  a  harbor  official  found  it  to  his 
interest  to  offer  him  the  choice  of  three  boats.  One  was 
sailing  to  Egj-^pt,  another  to  Australia,  another  to  Mon- 
tevideo and  Buenos  Aires,  which  made  the  strongest  ap- 
peal to  him?  .  .  .  Desnoyers,  remembering  his  readings, 
wished  to  consult  the  wind  and  follow  the  course  tliat 
it  indicated,  as  he  had  seen  various  heroes  of  novels 
do.  But  that  day  the  wind  blew  from  the  sea  toward 
France.  He  also  wished  to  toss  up  a  coin  in  order  to 
test  his  fate.  Finally  he  decided  upon  the  vessel  sailing 
first.  Not  until,  with  his  scanty  baggage,  he  was  ac- 
tually on  the  deck  of  the  next  boat  to  anchor,  did  he 
take  any  interest  in  its  course — "For  the  Rio  de  la 
Plata."  .  .  .  And  he  accepted  these  words  with  a  fatal- 
istic shrug.  "Very  well,  let  it  be  South  America!"  The 
country  was  not  distasteful  to  him,  since  he  knew  it  by 
certain  travel  publications  whose  illustrations  represent- 
ed herds  of  cattle  at  liberty,  half-naked,  plumed  Indians, 
and  hairy  cowboys  whirling  over  their  heads  serpentine 
lassos  tipped  with  balls. 

The  millionaire  Desnoyers  never  forgot  that  trip  to 
America — forty-three  days  navigating  in  a  little  worn- 
out  steamer  that  rattled  like  a  heap  of  old  iron,  groaned 
in  all  its  joints  at  the  slightest  roughness  of  the  sea, 
and  had  to  stop  four  times  for  repairs,  at  the  mercy  of 
the  winds  and  waves. 

In  Montevideo,  he  learned  of  the  reverses  suffered  by 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  41 

his  country  and  that  the  French  Empire  no  longer  ex- 
isted. He  felt  a  little  ashamed  when  he  heard  that  the 
nation  was  now  self-governing,  defending  itself  gal- 
lantly behind  the  walls  of  Paris.  And  he  had  fled !  .  .  . 
Months  afterwards,  the  events  of  the  Commune  consoled 
him  for  his  flight.  H  he  had  remained,  wrath  at  the 
national  downfall,  his  relations  with  his  co-laborers,  the 
air  in  which  he  lived — everything  would  surely  have 
dragged  him  along  to  revolt.  In  that  case,  he  would 
have  been  shot  or  consigned  to  a  colonial  prison  like  so 
many  of  his   former   comrades. 

So  his  determination  crystallized,  and  he  stopped  think- 
ing about  the  aflfairs  of  his  mother-  country.  The  neces- 
sities of  existence  in  a  foreign  land  whose  language  he 
was  beginning  to  pick  up  made  him  think  only  of  him- 
self. The  turbulent  and  adventurous  life  of  these  new 
nations  compelled  him  to  most  absurd  expedients  and 
varied  occupations.  Yet  he  felt  himself  strong  with  an 
audacity  and  self-reliance  which  he  never  had  in  the 
old  world.  "I  am  equal  to  everything,"  he  said,  "if  they 
only  give  me  time  to  prove  it!"  Although  he  had  fled 
from  his  country  in  order  not  to  take  up  arms,  he  even 
led  a  soldier's  life  for  a  brief  period  in  his  adopted  land, 
receiving  a  wound  in  one  of  the  many  hostilities  between 
the  whites  and  reds  in  the  unsettled  districts. 

In  Buenos  Aires,  he  again  worked  as  a  woodcarver. 
The  city  was  beginning  to  expand,  breaking  its  shell  as 
a  large  village.  Desnoyers  spent  many  years  ornament- 
ing salons  and  fagades.  It  was  a  laborious  existence, 
sedentary  and  remunerative.  But  one  day  he  became 
tired  of  this  slow  saving  which  could  only  bring  him 
a  mediocre  fortune  after  a  long  time.  He  had  gone  to 
the  new  world  to  become  rich  like  so  many  others.  And 
at  twenty-seven,  he  started  forth  again,  a  full-fledged 
adventurer,  avoiding  the  cities,  wishing  to  snatch  money 


42      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

from  untapped,  natural  sources.  He  worked  farms  in 
the  forests  of  the  North,  but  the  locusts  obliterated  his 
crops  in  a  few  hours.  He  was  a  cattle-driver,  with  the 
aid  of  only  two  peons,  driving  a  herd  of  oxen  and 
mules  over  the  snowy  solitudes  of  the  Andes  to  Bolivia 
and  Chile.  In  this  life,  making  journeys  of  many 
m.onths*  duration,  across  interminable  plains,  he  lost  ex- 
act account  of  time  and  space.  Just  as  he  thought  him- 
self on  the  verge  of  winning  a  fortune,  he  lost  it  all 
by  an  unfortunate  speculation.  And  in  a  moment  of 
failure  and  despair,  being  now  thirty  years  old,  he  be- 
came an  employee  of  Julio  Madariaga. 

He  knew  of  this  rustic  millionaire  through  his  pur- 
chases of  flocks — a  Spaniard  who  had  come  to  the  coun- 
try when  very  young,  adapting  himself  very  easily  to 
its  customs,  and  living  like  a  cowboy  after  he  had  ac- 
quired enormous  properties.  The  country  folk,  wishing 
to  put  a  title  of  respect  before  his  name,  called  him 
Don  Madariaga. 

"Comrade,"  he  said  to  Desnoyers  one  day  when  he 
happened  to  be  in  a  good  humor — a  very  rare  thing  for 
him — "you  must  have  passed  through  many  ups  and 
downs.  Your  lack  of  silver  may  be  smelled  a  long  ways 
off.  Why  lead  such  a  dog's  life?  Trust  in  me,  Frenchy, 
and  remain  here !    I  am  growing  old,  and  I  need  a  man." 

After  the  Frenchman  had  arranged  to  stay  with  Mada- 
riaga, every  landed  proprietor  living  within  fifteen  or 
twenty  leagues  of  the  ranch,  stopped  the  new  employee 
on  the  road  to  prophesy  all  sorts  of  misfortune. 

"You  will  not  stay  long.  Nobody  can  get  along  with 
Don  Madariaga.  We  have  lost  count  of  his  overseers. 
He  is  a  man  who  must  be  killed  or  deserted.  Soon  you 
will  go,  too!" 

Desnoyers  did  not  doubt  but  that  there  was  some 
truth  in  all  this.    Madariaga  was  an  impossible  charac- 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  43 

ter,  but  feeling  a  certain  sympathy  with  the  Frenchman, 
had  tried  not  to  annoy  him  with  his  irritability. 

"He's  a  regular  pearl,  this  Frenchy,"  said  the  plains- 
man as  though  trying  to  excuse  himself  for  his  consid- 
erate treatment  of  his  latest  acquisition.  "I  like  him 
because  he  is  very  serious.  .  .  .  That  is  the  way  I  like 
a  man." 

Desnoyers  did  not  know  exactly  what  this  much- 
admired  seriousness  could  be,  but  he  felt  a  secret  pride 
in  seeing  him  aggressive  with  everybody  else,  even  his 
family,  whilst  he  took  with  him  a  tone  of  paternal  bluff- 
ness. 

The  family  consisted  of  his  wife  Misia  Petrona  (whom- 
he  always  called  the  China)  and  two  grown  daughters 
who  had  gone  to  school  in  Buenos  Aires,  but  on  return- 
ing to  the  ranch  had  reverted  somewhat  to  their  orig- 
inal rusticity. 

Madariaga's  fortune  was  enormous.  He  had  lived  in 
the  field  since  his  arrival  in  America,  when  the  white 
race  had  not  dared  to  settle  outside  the  towns  for  fear 
of  the  Indians.  He  had  gained  his  first  money  as  a 
fearless  trader,  taking  merchandise  in  a  cart  from  fort 
to  fort.  He  had  killed  Indians,  was  twice  wounded  by 
them,  and  for  a  while  had  lived  as  a  captive  with  an 
Indian  chief  whom  he  finally  succeeded  in  making  his 
staunch  friend.  With  his  earnings,  he  had  bought  land^ 
much  land,  almost  worthless  because  of  its  insecurity, 
devoting  it  to  the  raising  of  cattle  that  he  had  to  defend,, 
gun  in  hand,  from  the  pirates  of  the  plains. 

Then  he  had  married  his  China,  a  young  half-breed 
who  was  running  around  barefoot,  but  owned  many  of 
her  forefather's  fields.  They  had  lived  in  an  almost 
savage  poverty  on  their  property  which  would  have 
taken  many  a  day's  journey  to  go  around.  Afterwards, 
when  the  government  was  pushing  the  Indians  towards 


44      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  frontiers,  and  offering  the  abandoned  lands  for  sale, 
considering  it  a  patriotic  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  any  one 
wishing  to  acquire  them,  Madariaga  bought  and  bought 
at  the  lowest  figure  and  longest  terms.  To  get  posses- 
sion of  vast  tracts  and  populate  it  with  blooded  stock 
l>ecame  the  mission  of  his  life.  At  times,  galloping  with 
Desnoyers  through  his  boundless  fields,  he  was  not  able 
to  repress  his  pride. 

"Tell  me  something,  Frenchy!  They  say  that  further 
up  the  country,  there  are  some  nations  about  the  size  of 
my  ranches.     Is  that  so?"  .  .  . 

The  Frenchman  agreed.  .  .  .  The  lands  of  Madariaga 
were  indeed  greater  than  many  principalities.  This  put 
the  old  plainsman  in  rare  good  humor  and  he  exclaimed 
in  the  cowboy  vernacular  which  had  become  second  na- 
ture to  him 

"Then  it  wouldn't  be  absurd  to  proclaim  myself  king 
some  day  ?  Just  imagine  it,  Frenchy ; — Don  Madariaga, 
the  First.  .  .  .  The  worst  of  it  all  is  that  I  would  also 
be  the  last,  for  the  China  will  not  give  me  a  son.  .  .  . 
She  is  a  weak  cow!" 

The  fame  of  his  vast  territories  and  his  wealth  in 
stock  reached  even  to  Buenos  Aires.  Every  one  knew 
of  Madariaga  by  name,  although  very  few  had  seen  him. 
When  he  went  to  the  Capital,  he  passed  unnoticed  be- 
cause of  his  country  aspect — the  same  leggings  that  he 
was  used  to  wearing  in  the  fields,  his  poncho  wrapped 
around  him  like  a  muffler  above  which  rose  the  aggres- 
sive points  of  a  necktie,  a  tormenting  ornament  imposed 
by  his  daughters,  who  in  vain  arranged  it  with  loving 
hands  that  he  might  look  a  little  more  respectable. 

One  day  he  entered  the  office  of  the  richest  merchant 
of  the  capital. 

"Sir,  I  know  that  you  need  some  young  bulls  for  the 
European  market,  and  I  have  come  to  sell  you  a  few." 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  45 

The  man  of  affairs  looked  haughtily  at  the  poor  cow- 
boy. He  might  explain  his  errand  to  one  of  the  em- 
ployees, he  could  not  waste  his  time  on  such  small  mat- 
ters. But  the  malicious  grin  on  the  rustic's  face  awoke 
his  curiosity. 

"And  how  many  are  you  able  to  sell,  my  good  man?" 

"About  thirty  thousand,  sir." 

It  was  not  necessary  to  hear  more.  The  supercilious 
merchant  sprang  from  his  desk,  and  obsequiously  of- 
fered him  a  seat. 

"You  can  be  no  other  than  Don  Madariaga." 

"At  the  service  of  God  and  yourself,  sir,"  he  re» 
sponded  in  the  manner  of  a  Spanish  countryman. 

That  was  the  most  glorious  moment  of  his  existence. 

In  the  outer  office  of  the  Directors  of  the  Bank,  the 
clerks  offered  him  a  seat  until  the  personage  the  other 
side  of  the  door  should  deign  to  receive  him.  But 
scarcely  was  his  name  announced  than  that  same  di- 
rector ran  to  admit  him,  and  the  employee  was  stupe- 
fied to  hear  the  ranchman  say,  by  way  of  greeting,  "I 
have  come  to  draw  out  three  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars. I  have  abundant  pasturage,  and  I  wish  to  buy  a 
ranch  or  two  in  order  to  stock  them." 

His  arbitrary  and  contradictory  character  weighed 
upon  the  inhabitants  of  his  lands  with  both  cruel  and 
good-natured  tyranny.  No  vagabond  ever  passed  by  the 
ranch  without  being  rudely  assailed  by  its  owner  from 
the  outset. 

"Don't  tell  me  any  of  your  hard-luck  stories,  friend," 
he  would  yell  as  if  he  were  going  to  beat  him.  "Under 
the  shed  is  a  skinned  beast;  cut  and  eat  as  much  as 
you  wish  and  so  help  yourself  to  continue  your  jour- 
ney. .  .  .  But  no  more  of  your  yams !" 

And  he  would  turn  his  back  upon  the  tramp,  after 
giving  him  a  few  dollars. 


46   FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

One  day  he  became  infuriated  because  a  peon  was 
nailing  the  wire  fencing  too  deliberately  on  the  posts. 
Everybody  was  robbing  him!  The  following  day  he 
spoke  of  a  large  sum  of  money  that  he  would  have  to 
pay  for  having  endorsed  the  note  of  an  acquaintance, 
•completely  bankrupt.  "Poor  fellow!  His  luck  is  worse 
than  mine!" 

Upon  finding  in  the  road  the  skeleton  of  a  recently 
killed  sheep,  he  was  beside  himself  with  indignation.  It 
was  not  because  of  the  loss  of  the  meat.  "Hunger 
knows  no  law,  and  God  has  made  meat  for  mankind 
to  eat.  But  they  might  at  least  have  left  the  skin!" 
,  .  .  And  he  would  rage  against  such  wickedness,  al- 
ways repeating,  "Lack  of  religion  and  good  habits !"  The 
next  time,  the  bandits  stripped  the  flesh  off  of  three 
•cows,  leaving  the  skins  in  full  view,  and  the  ranchman 
said,  smiling,  "That  is  the  way  I  like  people,  honorable 
and  doing  no  wrong." 

His  vigor  as  a  tireless  centaur  had  helped  him  power- 
fully in  his  task  of  populating  his  lands.  He  was  ca- 
pricious, despotic  and  with  the  same  paternal  instincts 
as  his  compatriots  who,  centuries  before  when  conquer- 
ing the  new  world,  had  clarified  its  native  blood.  Like 
the  Castilian  conquistadors,  he  had  a  fancy  for  copper- 
colored  beauty  with  oblique  eyes  and  straight  hair.  When 
Desnoyers  saw  him  going  off  on  some  sudden  pretext, 
putting  his  horse  at  full  gallop  toward  a  neighboring 
ranch,  he  would  say  to  himself,  smilingly,  "He  is  going 
in  search  of  a  new  peon  who  will  help  work  his  land 
fifteen  years  from  now." 

The  personnel  of  the  ranch  often  used  to  comment 
on  the  resemblance  of  certain  youths  laboring  here  the 
same  as  the  others,  galloping  from  the  first  streak  of 
dawn  over  the  fields,  attendinjj  to  the  various  duties  of 
pasturing.     The  overseer,  Celedonio,  a  half-breed  thirty 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  47 

years  old,  generally  detested  for  his  hard  and  avaricious 
character,  also  bore  a  distant  resemblance  to  the  patron. 

Almost  every  year,  some  woman  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, dirty  and  bad-faced,  presented  herself  at  the 
ranch,  leading  by  the  hand  a  little  mongrel  with  eyes 
like  live  coals.  She  would  ask  to  speak  with  the  pro- 
prietor alone,  and  upon  being  confronted  with  her,  he 
usually  recalled  a  trip  made  ten  or  twelve  years  before 
in  order  to  buy  a  herd  of  cattle. 

"You  remember.  Patron,  that  you  passed  the  night 
on  my  ranch  because  the  river  had  risen?" 

The  Patron  did  not  remember  anything  about  it  But 
a  vague  instinct  warned  him  that  the  woman  was  prob- 
ably telling  the  truth.     "Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Patron,  here  he  is.  .  .  .  It  is  better  for  him  to  grow 
to  manhood  by  your  side  than  in  any  other  place." 

And  she  presented  him  with  the  little  hybrid.  One 
more,  and  offered  with  such  simplicity!  .  .  .  "Lack  of 
religion  and  good  habits !"  Then  with  sudden  modesty, 
he  doubted  the  woman's  veracity.  Why  must  it  neces- 
sarily be  his?  .  .  .  But  his  wavering  was  generally 
short-lived. 

"If  it's  mine,  put  it  with  the  others." 

The  mother  went  away  tranquilly,  seeing  the  young- 
ster's future  assured,  because  this  man  so  lavish  in  vio- 
lence was  equally  so  in  generosity.  In  time  there  would 
be  a  bit  of  land  and  a  good  flock  of  sheep  for  the  urchin. 

These  adoptions  at  first  aroused  in  Misia  Petrona  a 
little  rebellion — the  only  ones  of  her  life;  but  the  cen- 
taur soon  reduced  her  to  terrified  silence. 

"And  you  dare  to  complain  of  me,  you  weak  cow ! 
...  A  woman  who  has  only  given  me  daughters.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

The  same  hand  that  negligently  extracted  from  his 
pocket  a  wad  of  bills  rolled  into  a  ball,  giving  them  away 


48       FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSF 

capriciously  without  knowing  just  how  much,  also  wore 
a  lash  hanging  from  the  wrist.  It  was  supposed  to  be 
for  his  horse,  but  it  was  used  with  equal  facility  when 
any  of  his  peons  incurred  his  wrath. 

"I  strike  because  I  can,"  he  would  say  to  pacify  him- 
self. 

One  day,  the  man  receiving  the  blow,  took  a  step 
backward,  hunting  for  the  knife  in  his  belt. 

"You  are  not  going  to  beat  me.  Patron.  I  was  not 
bom  in  these  parts.  ...  I  come  from  Corrientes." 

The  Patron  remained  with  upraised  thong.  "Is  it 
true  that  you  were  not  bom  here?  .  .  .  Then  you  are 
right ;  I  cannot  beat  you.    Here  are  five  dollars  for  you." 

When  Desnoyers  came  on  the  place,  Madariaga  was 
beginning  to  lose  count  of  those  who  were  under  his 
dominion  in  the  old  Latin  sense,  and  could  take  his 
blows.  There  were  so  many  that  confusion  often 
reigned. 

The  Frenchman  admired  the  Patron's  expert  eye  for 
his  business.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  contemplate  for 
a  few  moments  a  herd  of  cattle,  to  know  its  exact  num- 
ber. He  would  go  galloping  along  with  an  indifferent 
air,  around  an  immense  group  of  horned  and  stamping 
beasts,  and  then  would  suddenly  begin  to  separate  the 
different  animals.  He  had  discovered  that  they  were 
sick.  With  a  buyer  like  Madariaga,  all  the  tricks  and 
sharp  practice  of  the  drovers  came  to  naught. 

His  serenity  before  trouble  was  also  admirable.  A 
drought  suddenly  strewed  his  plains  with  dead  cattle, 
making  the  land  seem  like  an  abandoned  battlefield. 
Everywhere  great  black  hulks.  In  the  air,  great  spirals 
of  crows  coming  from  leagues  away.  At  other  times,  it 
was  the  cold;  an  unexpected  drop  in  the  thermometer 
would  cover  the  ground  with  dead  bodies.  Ten  thousand 
animals,  fifteen  thousand,  perhaps  more,  all  perished ! .  . . 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  49 

"What  a  knock-out!"  Madariaga  would  exclaim  with 
resignation.  "Without  such  troubles,  this  earth  would 
be  a  paradise.  .  .  .  Now,  the  thing  to  do  is  to  save  the 
skins  r 

And  he  would  rail  against  the  false  pride  of  the  emi- 
grants, against  the  new  customs  among  the  poor  which 
prevented  his  securing  enough  hands  to  strip  the  victims 
quickly,  so  that  thousands  of  hides  had  to  be  lost.  Their 
bones  whitened  the  earth  like  heaps  of  snow.  The  peon- 
citos  (little  peons)  went  around  putting  the  skulls  of 
cows  with  crumpled  horns  on  the  posts  of  the  wire  fences 
— a  rustic  decoration  which  suggested  a  procession  of 
Grecian  lyres. 

"It  is  lucky  that  the  land  is  left,  anyway !"  added  the 
ranchman. 

He  loved  to  race  around  his  immense  fields  when  they 
were  beginning  to  turn  green  in  the  late  rains.  He  had 
been  among  the  first  to  convert  these  virgin  wastes  into 
rich  meadow-lands,  supplementing  the  natural  pasturage 
with  alfalfa.  Where  one  beast  had  found  sustenance  be- 
fore, he  now  had  three.  "The  table  is  set,"  he  would 
chuckle,  "we  must  now  go  in  search  of  the  guests." 
And  he  kept  on  buying,  at  ridiculous  prices,  herds  dying 
of  hunger  in  others'  uncultivated  fields,  constantly  in- 
creasing his  opulent  lands  and  stock. 

One  morning  Desnoyers  saved  his  life.  The  old 
ranchman  had  raised  his  lash  against  a  recently  arrived 
peon  who  returned  the  attack,  knife  in  hand.  Mada- 
riaga was  defending  himself  as  best  he  could,  convinced 
from  one  minute  to  another  that  he  was  going  to  receive 
the  deadly  knife-thnist — when  Desnoyers  arrived  and* 
drawing  his  revolver,  overcame  and  disarmed  tb<»  "'dvei* 
sary. 

"Thanks,  Frenchy,"  said  th>:  ranchmati,  much  touched. 
"You  are  an  all-round  man,  and  I  am  going  to  reward 


so      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

you.  From  this  day  I  shall  speak  to  you  as  I  do  to 
my  family." 

Desnoyers  did  not  know  just  what  this  familiar  talk 
might  amount  to,  for  his  employer  was  so  peculiar. 
Certain  personal  favors,  nevertheless,  immediately  began 
to  improve  his  position.  He  was  no  longer  allowed  to 
eat  in  the  administration  building,  the  proprietor  insist- 
ing imperiously  that  henceforth  Desnoyers  should  sit 
at  his  own  table,  and  thus  he  was  admitted  into  the  in- 
timate life  of  the  Madariaga  family. 

The  wife  was  always  silent  when  her  husband  was 
present.  She  was  used  to  rising  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  in  order  to  oversee  the  breakfasts  of  the  peons, 
the  distribution  of  biscuit,  and  the  boiling  of  the  great 
black  kettles  of  coffee  or  shrub  tea.  She  looked  after 
the  chattering  and  lazy  maids  who  so  easily  managed  to 
get  lost  in  the  nearby  groves.  In  the  kitchen,  too,  she 
made  her  authority  felt  like  a  regular  house-mistress, 
but  the  minute  that  she  heard  her  husband's  voice  she 
shrank  into  a  respectful  and  timorous  silence.  Upon 
sitting  down  at  table,  the  China  would  look  at  him  with 
devoted  submission,  her  great,  round  eyes  fixed  on  him 
like  an  owl's.  Desnoyers  felt  that  in  this  mute  admira- 
tion was  mingled  great  astonishment  at  the  energy  with 
which  the  ranchman,  already  over  seventy,  was  contin- 
uing to  bring  new  occupants  to  live  on  his  demesne. 

The  two  daughters,  Luisa  and  Elena,  accepted  with 
enthusiasm  the  new  arrival  who  came  to  enliven  the 
monotonous  conversations  in  the  dining  room,  so  often 
cut  short  by  their  father's  wrathful  outbursts.  Be- 
sides, he  was  from  Paris.  "Paris!"  sighed  Elena,  the 
younger  one,  rolling  her  eyes.  And  Desnoyers  was 
henceforth  consulted  in  all  matters  of  style  every  time 
they  ordered  any  "confections"  from  the  shops  of  Bue- 
nos Aires. 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  51 

The  interior  of  the  house  reflected  the  different  tastes 
of  the  two  generations.  The  girls  had  a  parlor  with 
a  few  handsome  pieces  of  furniture  placed  against  the 
cracked  walls,  and  some  showy  lamps  that  were  never 
lighted.  The  father,  with  his  boorishness,  often  invad- 
ed this  room  so  cherished  and  admired  by  the  two  sis- 
ters, making  the  carpets  look  shabby  and  faded  under 
his  muddy  boot-tracks.  Upon  the  gilt  centre-table,  he 
loved  to  lay  his  lash.  Samples  of  maize  scattered  its 
grains  over  a  silk  sofa  which  the  young  ladies  tried  to 
keep  very  choice,  as  though  they  feared  it  might  break. 

Near  the  entrance  to  the  dining  room  was  a  weighing 
machine,  and  Madariaga  became  furious  when  his 
daughters  asked  him  to  remove  it  to  the  offices.  He  was 
not  going  to  trouble  himself  to  go  outside  every  time 
that  he  wanted  to  know  the  weight  of  a  leather  skin! 
...  A  piano  came  into  the  ranch,  and  Elena  passed  the 
hours  practising  exercises  with  desperate  good  will. 
"Heavens  and  earth!  She  might  at  least  play  the  Jota 
or  the  Perican,  or  some  other  lively  Spanish  dance!" 
And  the  irate  father,  at  the  hour  of  siesta,  betook  him- 
self to  the  nearby  eucalyptus  trees,  to  sleep  upon  his 
poncho. 

This  younger  daughter  whom  he  dubbed  La  Roman- 
tka,  was  the  special  victim  of  his  wrath  and  ridicule. 
Where  had  she  picked  up  so  many  tastes  which  he  and 
his  good  China  never  had  had  ?  Music  books  were  piled 
on  the  piano.  In  a  corner  of  the  absurd  parlor  were 
some  wooden  boxes  that  had  held  preserves,  which  the 
ranch  carpenter  had  been  made  to  press  into  service  as 
a  bookcase. 

"Look  here,  Frenchy,"  scoffed  Madariaga.  "All  these 
are  novels  and  poems!    Pure  lies!  .  .  .  Hot  air!" 

He  had  his  private  library,  vastly  more  important  and 
glorious,  and  occupying  less  space.    In  his  desk,  adorned 


52      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

with  guns,  thongs,  and  chaps  studded  with  silver,  was  a 
little  compartment  containing  deeds  and  various  legal 
documents  which  the  ranchman  surveyed  with  great 
pride. 

"Pay  attention,  now  and  hear  marvellous  things,"  an- 
nounced the  master  to  Desnoyers,  as  he  took  out  one  of 
his  memorandum  books. 

This  volume  contained  the  pedigree  of  the  famous 
animals  which  had  improved  his  breeds  of  stock,  the 
genefelogical  trees,  the  patents  of  nobility  of  his  aristo- 
cratic beasts.  He  would  have  to  read  its  contents  to 
him  since  he  did  not  permit  even  his  family  to  touch 
these  records.  And  with  his  spectacles  on  the  end  of 
his  nose,  he  would  spell  out  the  credentials  of  each  ani- 
mal celebrity.  "Diamond  HI,  grandson  of  Diamond  I, 
owned  by  the  King  of  England,  son  of  Diamond  II, 
winner  in  the  races."  His  Diamond  had  cost  him 
many  thousands,  but  the  finest  horses  on  the  ranch, 
those  which  brought  the  most  marvellous  prices,  were 
his  descendants. 

"That  horse  had  more  sense  than  most  people.  He 
only  lacked  the  power  to  talk.  He's  the  one  that's 
stuffed,  near  the  door  of  the  parlor.  The  girls  wanted 
him  thrown  out.  .  .  .  Just  let  them  dare  to  touch  him! 
I'd  chuck  them  out  first!" 

Then  he  would  continue  reading  the  history  of  a  dy- 
nasty of  bulls  with  distinctive  names  and  a  succession 
of  Roman  numbers,  the  same  as  kings — animals  acquired 
by  the  stubborn  ranchman  in  the  great  cattle  fairs  of 
England.  He  had  never  been  there,  but  he  had  used  the 
cable  in  order  to  compete  in  pounds  sterling  with  the 
British  owners  who  wished  to  keep  such  valuable  stock 
in  their  own  country.  Thanks  to  these  blue-blooded 
sires  that  had  crossed  the  ocean  with  all  the  luxury  of 
millionaire  passengers,  he  had  been  able  to  exhibit  in 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  53 

the  concourses  of  Buenos  Aires  animals  which  were 
veritable  towers  of  meat,  edible  elephants  with  their 
sides  as  fit  and  sleek  as  a  table. 

"That  book  amounts  to  something!  Don't  you  think 
so,  Frenchy?  It  is  worth  more  than  all  those  pictures 
of  moons,  lakes,  lovers  and  other  gewgaws  that  my 
Romantica  puts  on  the  walls  to  catch  the  dust." 

And  he  would  point  out,  in  contrast,  the  precious  di- 
plomas which  were  adorning  his  desk,  the  metal  vases 
and  other  trophies  won  in  the  fairs  by  the  descendants 
of  his  blooded  stock. 

Luisa,  the  elder  daughter,  called  Chicha,  in  the  South 
American  fashion,  was  much  more  respected  by  her 
father.  ''She  is  my  poor  China  right  over  again,"  he 
said,  "the  same  good  nature,  and  the  same  faculty  for 
work,  but  more  of  a  lady."  Desnoyers  entirely  agreed 
with  him,  and  yet  the  father's  description  seemed  to  him 
weak  and  incomplete.  He  could  not  admit  that  the  pale, 
modest  girl  with  the  great  black  eyes  and  smile  of  child- 
ish mischief  bore  the  slightest  resemblance  to  the  re- 
spectable matron  who  had  brought  her  into  existence. 

The  great  fiesta  for  Chicha  was  the  Sunday  mass.  It 
represented  a  journey  of  three  leagues  to  the  nearest 
village,  a  weekly  contact  with  people  unlike  those  of 
the  ranch.  A  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses  took  the 
senora  and  the  two  seiioritas  in  the  latest  suits  and  hats 
arrived,  via  Buenos  Aires,  from  Europe.  At  the  sug- 
gestion of  Chicha,  Desnoyers  accompanied  them  in  the 
capacity  of  driver. 

The  father  remained  at  home,  taking  advantage  of  this 
opportunity  to  survey  his  fields  in  their  Sunday  solitude, 
thus  keeping  a  closer  oversight  on  the  shiftlessness  of 
his  hands.  He  was  very  religious — "Religion  and  good 
manners,  you  know."  But  had  he  not  given  thousands 
of  dollars  toward  building  the  neighboring  church?    A 


e4      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

man  of  his  fortune  should  not  be  submitted  to  the  same 
obligations  as  ragamuffins! 

During  the  Sunday  lunch  the  young  ladies  were  apt 
to  make  comments  upon  the  persons  and  merits  of  the 
young  men  of  the  village  and  neighboring  ranches, 
who  had  lingered  at  the  church  door  in  order  to  chat  with 
them. 

"Don't  fool  yourselves,  girls!"  observed  the  father 
shrewdly.  "You  believe  that  they  want  you  for  your 
elegance,  don't  you?  .  .  .  What  those  shameless  fellows 
really  want  are  the  dollars  of  old  Madariaga,  and  once 
they  had  them,  they  would  probably  give  you  a  daily 
beating." 

For  a  while  the  ranch  received  numerous  visitors. 
Some  were  young  men  of  the  neighborhood  who  arrived 
on  spirited  steeds,  performing  all  kinds  of  tricks  of  fancy 
horsemanship.  They  wanted  to  see  Don  Julio  on  the 
most  absurd  pretexts,  and  at  the  same  time  improved 
the  opportunity  to  chat  with  Chicha  and  Luisa.  At  other 
times  they  were  youths  from  Buenos  Aires  asking  for 
a  lodging  at  the  ranch,  as  they  were  just  passing  by. 
Don  Madariaga  would  growl 

"Another  good-for-nothing  scamp  who  comes  in  search 
of  the  Spanish  ranchman!  If  he  doesn't  move  on  soon 
.  .  .  I'll  kick  him  out!" 

But  the  suitor  did  not  stand  long  on  the  order  of  his 
going,  intimidated  by  the  ominous  silence  of  the  Pa- 
tron. This  silence,  of  late,  had  persisted  in  an  alarming 
manner,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  ranch  was  no  longer 
receiving  visitors.  Madariaga  appeared  abstracted,  and 
all  the  family,  including  Desnoyers,  respected  and  feared 
this  taciturnity.  He  ate,  scowling,  with  lowered  head. 
Suddenly  he  would  raise  his  eyes,  looking  at  Chicha, 
then  at  Desnoyers,  finally  fixing  them  upon  his  wife  as 
though  asking  her  to  give  an  account  of  things. 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  55 

His  Romantica  simply  did  not  exist  for  him.  The 
only  notice  that  he  ever  took  of  her  was  to  give  an 
ironical  snort  when  he  happened  to  see  her  leaning  at 
sunset  against  the  doorway,  looking  at  the  reddening 
glow — one  elbow  on  the  door  frame  and  her  cheek  in 
her  hand,  in  imitation  of  the  posture  of  a  certain  white 
lady  that  she  had  seen  in  a  chromo,  awaiting  the  knight 
of  her  dreams. 

Desnoyers  had  been  five  years  in  the  house  when  one 
day  he  entered  his  master's  private  office  with  the 
brusque  air  of  a  timid  person  who  has  suddenly  reached 
a  decision. 

"Don  Julio,  I  am  going  to  leave  and  I  would  like  our 
accounts  settled." 

Madariaga  looked  at  him  slyly.  "Going  to  leave,  eh? 
.  .  .  What  for?"  But  in  vain  he  repeated  his  questions. 
The  Frenchman  was  floundering  through  a  series  of  in- 
coherent explanations — "I'm  going;  I've  got  to  go." 

"Ah,  you  thief,  you  false  prophet !"  shouted  the  ranch- 
man in  stentorian  tones. 

But  Desnoyers  did  not  quail  before  the  insults.  He 
had  often  heard  his  Patron  use  these  same  words  when 
holding  somebody  up  to  ridicule,  or  haggling  with  cer- 
tain cattle  drovers. 

"Ah,  you  thief,  you  false  prophet!  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  do  not  know  why  you  are  going?  Do  you  sup- 
pose old  Madariaga  has  not  seen  your  languishing  looks 
and  those  of  my  dead  fly  of  a  daughter,  clasping  each 
others'  hands  in  the  presence  of  poor  China  who  is  blind- 
ed in  her  judgment?  .  .  .  It's  not  such  a  bad  stroke, 
Frenchy.  By  it,  you  would  be  able  to  get  possession  of 
half  of  the  old  Spaniard's  dollars,  and  then  say  that 
you  had  made  it  in  America." 

And  while  he  was  storming,  or  rather  howling,  all 
this,  he  had  grasped  his  lash  and  with  the  butt  end  kept 


56      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

poking  his  manager  in  the  stomach  with  such  insistence 
that  it  might  be  construed  in  an  affectionate  or  hostile 
way. 

"For  this  reason  I  have  come  to  bid  you  good-bye," 
said  Desnoyers  haughtily.  "I  know  that  my  love  is 
absurd,  and  I  wish  to  leave." 

"The  gentleman  would  go  away,"  the  ranchman  con- 
tinued spluttering.  "The  gentleman  believes  that  here 
one  can  do  what  one  pleases!  No,  siree!  Here  no- 
body commands  but  old  Madariaga,  and  I  order  you 
to  stay.  .  .  .  Ah,  these  women!  They  only  serve  to  an- 
tagonize men.   And  yet  we  can't  live  without  them !"  .  .  . 

He  took  several  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  as 
though  his  last  words  were  making  him  think  of  some- 
thing very  different  from  what  he  had  just  been  saying. 
Desnoyers  looked  uneasily  at  the  thong  which  was  still 
hanging  from  his  wrist.  Suppose  he  should  attempt 
to  whip  him  as  he  did  the  peons?  .  .  .  He  was  still  un- 
decided whether  to  hold  his  own  against  a  man  who  had 
always  treated  him  with  benevolence  or,  while  his  back 
was  turned,  to  take  refuge  in  discreet  flight,  when  the 
ranchman  planted  himself  before  him. 

"You  really  love  her,  really?"  he  asked.  "Are  you 
sure  that  she  loves  you?  Be  careful  what  you  say,  for 
love  is  blind  and  deceitful.  I,  too,  when  I  married  my 
China  was  crazy  about  her.  Do  you  love  her,  honestly 
and  truly?  .  .  .  Well  then,  take  her,  you  devilish 
Frenchy.  Somebody  has  to  take  her,  and  may  she  not 
turn  out  a  weak  cow  like  her  mother!  .  .  .  Let  us  have 
the  ranch  full  of  grandchildren!" 

In  voicing  this  stock-raiser's  wish,  again  appeared  the 
great  breeder  of  beasts  and  men.  And  as  though  he 
considered  it  necessary  to  explain  his  concession,  he 
added — "I  do  all  this  because  I  like  you ;  and  I  like  you 
because  you  are  serious." 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  57 

Again  the  Frenchman  was  plunged  in  doubt,  not  know- 
ing in  just  what  this  greatly  appreciated  seriousness  con- 
sisted. 

At  his  wedding  Desnoyers  thought  much  of  his  mother. 
If  only  the  poor  old  woman  could  witness  this  extraor- 
dinary stroke  of  good  fortune!  But  she  had  died  the 
year  before,  believing  her  son  enormously  rich  because 
he  had  been  sending  her  sixty  dollars  every  month, 
taken  from  the  wages  that  he  had  earned  on  the  ranch. 

Desnoyers'  entrance  into  the  family  made  his  father- 
in-law  pay  less  attention  to  business. 

City  life,  with  all  its  untried  enchantments  and  snares, 
now  attracted  Madariaga,  and  he  began  to  speak  with 
contempt  of  country  women,  poorly  groomed  and  inspir- 
ing him  with  disgust.  He  had  given  up  his  cowboy 
attire,  and  was  displaying  with  childish  satisfaction,  the 
new  suits  in  which  a  tailor  of  the  Capital  was  trying  to 
disguise  him.  When  Elena  wished  to  accompany  him 
to  Buenos  Aires,  he  would  wriggle  out  of  it,  trumping 
up  some  absorbing  business.  "No;  you  go  with  your 
mother." 

The  fate  of  his  fields  and  flocks  gave  him  no  uneasi- 
ness. His  fortune,  managed  by  Desnoyers,  was  in  good 
hands. 

"He  is  very  serious,"  again  affirmed  the  old  Spaniard 
to  his  family  assembled  in  the  dining  room — "as  serious 
as  I  am.  .  .  .  Nobody  can  make  a  fool  of  him!" 

And  finally  the  Frenchman  concluded  that  when  his 
father-in-law  spoke  of  seriousness  he  was  referring  to 
his  strength  of  character.  According  to  the  spontaneous 
declaration  of  Madariaga,  he  had,  from  the  very  first 
day  that  he  had  dealings  with  Desnoyers,  perceived  in 
him  a  nature  like  his  own,  more  hard  and  firm  perhaps, 
but  without  splurges  of  eccentricities.  On  this  account 
he  had  treated  him  with  such  extraordinary  circumspec- 


58      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

tion,  foreseeing  that  a  clash  between  the  two  could  never 
be  adjusted.  Their  only  disagreements  were  about  the 
expenses  established  by  Madariaga  during  his  regime. 
Since  the  son-in-law  was  managing  the  ranches,  the  work 
was  costing  less,  and  the  people  working  more  diligently ; 
— and  that,  too,  without  yells,  and  without  strong  words 
and  deeds,  with  only  his  presence  and  brief  orders. 

The  old  man  was  the  only  one  defending  the  capri- 
cious system  of  a  blow  followed  by  a  gift.  He  revolted 
against  a  minute  and  mechanical  administration,  always 
the  same,  without  any  arbitrary  extravagance  or  good- 
natured  tyranny.  Very  frequently  some  of  the  half- 
breed  peons  whom  a  malicious  public  supposed  to  be 
closely  related  to  the  ranchman,  would  present  them- 
selves before  Desnoyers  with,  "Senor  Manager,  the  old 
Patron  say  that  you  are  to  give  me  five  dollars."  The 
Seiior  Manager  would  refuse,  and  soon  after  Madariaga 
would  rush  in  in  a  furious  temper,  but  measuring  his 
words,  nevertheless,  remembering  that  his  son-in-law's 
disposition  was  as  serious  as  his  own. 

"I  like  you  very  much,  my  son,  but  here  no  one  over- 
rules me.  .  .  .  Ah,  Frenchy,  you  are  like  all  the  rest 
of  your  countrymen!  Once  you  get  your  claws  on  a 
penny,  it  goes  into  your  stocking,  and  nevermore  sees 
the  light  of  day,  even  though  they  crucify  you  .  .  .  ! 
Did  I  say  five  dollars?  Give  him  ten.  I  command  it 
and  that  is  enough." 

The  Frenchman  paid,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  whilst 
his  father-in-law,  satisfied  with  his  triumph,  fled  to  Bue- 
nos Aires.  It  was  a  good  thing  to  have  it  well  under- 
stood that  the  ranch  still  belonged  to  Madariaga,  the 
Spaniard. 

From  one  of  these  trips,  he  returned  with  a  compan- 
ion, a  young  German  who,  according  to  him,  knew  every- 
thing and   could   do   everything.     His   son-in-law   was 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  59 

working  too  hard.  This  Karl  Hartrott  would  assist  him 
in  the  bookkeeping.  Desnoyers  accepted  the  situation, 
and  in  a  few  days  felt  increasing  esteem  for  the  new 
incumbent. 

Although  they  belonged  to  two  unfriendly  nations,  it 
didn't  matter.  There  are  good  people  everywhere,  and 
this  Karl  was  a  subordinate  worth  considering.  He  kepi 
his  distance  from  his  equals,  and  was  hard  and  inflexible 
toward  his  inferiors.  All  his  faculties  seemed  concen- 
trated in  service  and  admiration  for  those  above  him. 
Scarcely  would  Madariaga  open  his  lips  before  the  Ger- 
man's head  began  nodding  in  agreement,  anticipating  his 
words.  If  he  said  anything  funny,  his  clerk's  laugh 
would  break  forth  in  scandalous  roars.  With  Desnoyers 
he  appeared  more  taciturn,  working  without  stopping 
for  hours  at  a  time.  As  soon  as  he  saw  the  manager 
entering  the  office  he  would  leap  from  his  seat,  holdmg 
himself  erect  with  military  precision.  He  was  always 
ready  to  do  anything  whatever.  Unasked,  he  spied  on 
the  workmen,  reporting  their  carelessness  and  mistakes. 
This  last  service  did  not  especially  please  his  superior 
officer,  but  he  appreciated  it  as  a  sign  of  interest  in  the 
establishment. 

The  old  man  bragged  triumphantly  of  the  new  acqui- 
sition, urging  his  son-in-law  also  to  rejoice. 

"A  very  useful  fellow,  isn't  he?  .  .  .  These  gringoes 
from  Germany  work  well,  know  a  good  many  things 
and  cost  little.  Then,  too,  so  disciplined!  so  servile! 
...  I  am  sorry  to  praise  him  so  to  you  because  you 
are  a  Frenchy,  and  your  nation  has  in  them  a  very 
powerful  enemy.     His  people  are  a  hard-shelled  race." 

Desnoyers  replied  with  a  shrug  of  indifference.  His 
country  was  far  away,  and  so  was  Germany.  Who  knew 
if  they  would  ever  return!  .  .  .  They  were  botli  Argen 


Oo      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

tinians  now,  and  ought  to  interest  themselves  in  present 
affairs  and  not  bother  about  the  past. 

"And  how  little  pride  they  have!"  sneered  Madariaga 
in  an  ironical  tone.  "Every  one  of  these  grmgoes  when 
he  is  a  clerk  at  the  Capital  sweeps  the  shop,  prepares 
the  meals,  keeps  the  books,  sells  to  the  customers,  works 
the  typewriter,  translates  four  or  five  languages,  and 
dances  attendance  on  the  proprietor's  lady  friend,  as 
though  she  were  a  grand  seiiora  ...  all  for  twenty-five 
dollars  a  month.  Who  can  compete  with  such  people! 
You,  Frenchy,  you  are  like  me,  very  serious,  and  would 
die  of  hunger  before  passing  through  certain  things. 
But,  mark  my  words,  on  this  very  account  they  are  go- 
ing to  become  a  terrible  people !" 

After  brief  reflection,  the  ranchman  added: 

"Perhaps  they  are  not  so  good  as  they  seem.  Just  see 
how  they  treat  those  under  them !  It  may  be  that  they 
affect  this  simplicity  without  having  it,  and  when  they 
grin  at  receiving  a  kick,  they  are  saying  inside,  "Just 
wait  till  my  turn  comes,  and  Fll  give  you  three !" 

Then  he  suddenly  seemed  to  repent  of  his  suspicions. 

"At  any  rate,  this  Karl  is  a  poor  fellow,  a  mealy- 
mouthed  simpleton  who  the  minute  I  say  anything  opens 
his  jaws  like  a  fly-catcher.  He  insists  that  he  comes  of 
a  great  family,  but  who  knows  anything  about  these 
gringoesT  .  .  .  All  of  us,  dead  with  hunger  when  we 
reach  America,  claim  to  be  sons  of  princes." 

Madariaga  had  placed  himself  on  a  familiar  footing 
with  his  Teutonic  treasure,  not  through  gratitude  as  with 
Desnoyers,  but  in  order  to  make  him  feel  his  inferiority. 
He  had  also  introduced  him  on  an  equal  footing  in  his 
home,  but  only  that  he  might  give  piano  lessons  to  his 
younger  daughter.  The  Romantica  was  no  longer  fram- 
ing herself  in  the  doorway — in  the  gloaming  watching 
the  sunset  reflections.    When  Karl  had  finished  his  work 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  61 

in  the  office,  he  was  now  coming  to  the  house  and  seat- 
ing himself  beside  Elena,  who  was  tinkling  away  with 
a  persistence  worthy  of  a  better  fate.  At  the  end  of  the 
hour  the  German,  accompanying  himself  on  the  piano, 
would  sing  fragments  from  Wagner  in  such  a  way  that 
it  put  Madariaga  to  sleep  in  his  armchair  with  his  great 
Paraguay  cigar  sticking  out  of  his  mouth. 

Elena  meanwhile  was  contemplating  with  increasing 
interest  the  singing  gringo.  He  was  not  the  knight  of 
her  dreams  awaited  by  the  fair  lady.  He  was  almost 
a  servant,  a  blond  immigrant  with  reddish  hair,  fat, 
heavy,  and  with  bovine  eyes  that  reflected  an  eternal  fear 
of  disagreeing  with  his  chiefs.  But  day  by  day,  she  was 
finding  in  him  something  which  rather  modified  these 
impressions — his  feminine  fairness,  except  where  he  was 
burned  by  the  sun,  the  increasingly  martial  aspect  of  his 
moustachios,  the  agility  with  which  he  mounted  his  horse, 
his  air  of  a  troubadour,  intoning  with  a  rather  weak 
tenor  voluptuous  romances  whose  words  she  did  not  un- 
derstand. 

One  night,  just  before  supper,  the  impressionable  girl 
announced  with  a  feverish  excitement  which  she  could 
no  longer  repress  that  she  had  made  a  grand  discovery. 

"Papa,  Karl  is  of  noble  birth!  He  belongs  to  a  great 
family." 

The  plainsman  made  a  gesture  of  indifference.  Other 
things  were  vexing  him  in  those  days.  But  during  the 
evening,  feeling  the  necessity  of  venting  on  somebody 
the  wrath  which  had  been  gnawing  at  his  vitals  since  his 
last  trip  to  Buenos  Aires,  he  interrupted  the  singer. 

"See  here,  gringo,  what  is  all  this  nonsense  about  no- 
bility which  you  have  been  telling  my  girl?" 

Karl  It^it  the  piano  that  he  might  draw  himself  up 
to  the  r.;\')roved  military  position  before  responding. 
Under  t!  e  influence  of  his  recent  song,  his  pose  sug- 


6?      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

gested  Lohengrin  about  to  reveal  the  secret  of  his  life. 
His  father  had  been  General  von  Hartrott,  one  of  the 
commanders  in  the  war  of  '70.  The  Emperor  had  re- 
warded his  services  by  giving  him  a  title.  One  of  his 
uncles  was  an  intimate  councillor  of  the  King  of  Prus- 
sia. His  older  brothers  were  conspicuous  in  the  most 
select  regiments.    He  had  carried  a  sword  as  a  lieutenant. 

Bored  with  all  this  grandeur,  Madariaga  interrupted 
him.  "Lies  .  .  .  nonsense  .  .  .  hot  air!"  The  very  idea 
of  a  gringo  talking  to  him  about  nobility!  .  .  .  He  had 
left  Europe  when  very  young  in  order  to  cast  in  his  lot 
A\  ith  the  revolting  democracies  of  America,  and  although 
nobility  now  seemed  to  him  something  out-of-date  and 
incomprehensible,  still  he  stoutly  maintained  that  the 
only  true  nobility  was  that  of  his  own  country.  He 
would  yield  first  place  to  the  gringoes  for  the  invention 
of  machinery  and  ships,  and  for  breeding  priceless  ani- 
mals, but  all  the  Counts  and  Marquises  of  Gringo-land 
appeared  to  him  to  be  fictitious  characters. 

"All  tomfoolery!"  he  blustered.  "There  isn't  any  no- 
bility in  your  country,  nor  have  you  five  dollars  all  told 
to  rub  against  each  other.  If  you  had,  you  wouldn't 
come  over  here  to  play  the  gallant  to  women  who  are 
.  .  .  you  know  what  they  are  as  well  as  I  do." 

To  the  astonishment  of  Desnoyers,  the  German  re- 
ceived this  onslaught  with  much  humility,  nodding  his 
head  in  agreement  with  the  Patron's  last  words. 

"If  there's  any  truth  in  all  this  twaddle  about  titles," 
continued  Madariaga  implacably,  "swords  and  uniforms, 
what  did  you  come  here  for  ?  What  in  the  devil  did  you 
do  in  your  own  country  that  you  had  to  leave  it?" 

Now  Karl  hung  his  head,  confused  and  stuttering. 

"Papa,  papa,"  pleaded  Elena.  "The  poor  little  fellow  f 
How  can  you  humiliate  him  so  just  because  he  is  poor?'' 
.  .  .  And  she  felt  a  deep  gratitude  toward  her  brother- 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  63 

in-law  when  he  broke  through  his  usual  reserve  in  order 
to  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  German. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  he's  a  good-enough  fellow,"  said 
Madariaga,  excusing  himself,  "But  he  comes  from  a 
land  that  I  detest." 

When  Desnoyers  made  a  trip  to  Buenos  Aires  a  few 
days  afterward,  the  cause  of  the  old  man's  wrath  was 
explained.  It  appeared  that  for  some  months  past  Mada- 
riaga had  been  the  financial  guarantor  and  devoted  swain 
of  a  German  prima  donna  stranded  in  South  America 
with  an  Italian  opera  company.  It  was  she  who  had 
recommended  Karl — an  unfortunate  countryman,  who 
after  wandering  through  many  parts  of  the  continent, 
was  now  living  with  her  as  a  sort  of  gentlemanly  singer. 
Madariaga  had  joyously  expended  upon  this  courtesan 
many  thousands  of  dollars.  A  childish  enthusiasm  had 
accompanied  him  in  this  novel  existence  midst  urban  dis- 
sipations until  he  happened  to  discover  that  his  Fraulein 
was  leading  another  life  during  his  absence,  laughing 
at  him  with  the  parasites  of  her  retinue;  whereupon  he 
arose  in  his  wrath  and  bade  her  farewell  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  blows  and  broken  furniture. 

The  last  adventure  of  his  life!  .  .  .  Desnoyers  sus- 
pected his  abdication  upon  hearing  him  admit  his  age, 
for  the  first  time.  He  did  not  intend  to  return  to  the 
capital.  It  was  all  false  glitter.  Existence  in  the  coun- 
try, surrounded  by  all  his  family  and  doing  good  to  the 
poor  was  the  only  sure  thing.  And  the  terrible  centaur 
expressed  himself  with  the  idyllic  tenderness  and  firm 
virtue  of  seventy-five  years,  already  insensible  to  temp- 
tation. 

After  his  scene  with  Karl,  he  had  increased  the  Ger- 
man's salary,  trying  as  usual,  to  counteract  the  effects  of 
his  violent  outbreaks  with  generosity.  That  which  he 
could  not  forget  was  his  dependent's  nobility,  constantly 


64      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

making  it  the  subject  of  new  jests.  That  glorious  boast 
had  brought  to  his  mind  the  genealogical  trees  of  the 
illustrious  ancestry  of  his  prize  cattle.  The  German  was 
a  pedigreed  fellow,  and  thenceforth  he  called  him  by 
that  nickname. 

Seated  on  summer  nights  under  the  awning,  he  sur- 
veyed his  family  around  him  with  a  sort  of  patriarchal 
ecstasy.  In  the  evening  hush  could  be  heard  the  buzzing 
of  insects  and  the  croaking  of  the  frogs.  From  the 
distant  ranches  floated  the  songs  of  the  peons  as  they 
prepared  their  suppers.  It  was  harvest  time,  and  great 
bands  of  immigrants  were  encamped  in  the  fields  for 
the  extra  work. 

Madariaga  had  known  many  of  the  hard  old  days  of 
wars  and  violence.  Upon  his  arrival  in  South  America, 
he  had  witnessed  the  last  years  of  the  tyranny  of  Rosas. 
He  loved  to  enumerate  the  different  provincial  and  na- 
tional revolutions  in  which  he  had  taken  part.  But  all 
this  had  disappeared  and  would  never  return.  These 
were  the  times  of  peace,  work  and  abundance. 

"Just  think  of  it,  Frenchy,"  he  said,  driving  away  the 
mosquitoes  with  the  puffs  of  his  cigar.  "I  am  Spanish, 
you  French,  Karl  German,  my  daughters  Argentinians, 
the  cook  Russian,  his  assistant  Greek,  the  stable  boy  Eng- 
lish, the  kitchen  servants  Chinas  (natives),  Galicians  or 
Italians,  and  among  the  peons  there  are  many  castes  and 
laws.  .  .  .  And  yet  we  all  live  in  peace.  In  Europe, 
we  would  have  probably  been  in  a  grand  fight  by  this 
time,  but  here  we  are  all  friends." 

He  took  much  pleasure  in  listening  to  the  music  of 
the  laborers — laments  from  Italian  songs  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  accordion,  Spanish  guitars  and  v^reolc 
choruses,  wild  voices  chanting  oi  .^/e  and  death. 

'This  is  a  regular  Noah's  ark,"  exulted  the  vainglo- 
rious patriarch. 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  65 

"He  means  the  tower  of  Babel,"  thought  Desnoyers  to 
himself,  "but  it's  all  the  same  thing  to  the  old  man." 

"I  believe,"  he  rambled  on,  "that  we  live  thus  because 
in  this  part  of  the  world  there  are  no  kings  and  a  very 
small  army — and  mankind  is  thinking  only  of  enjoying 
itself  as  much  as  possible,  thanks  to  its  work.  But  I 
also  believe  that  we  live  so  peacefully  because  there  is 
such  abundance  that  everyone  gets  his  share.  .  .  .  How 
quickly  we  would  spring  to  arms  if  the  rations  were  less 
than  the  people!" 

Again  he  fell  into  reflective  silence,  shortly  after  an- 
nouncing the  result  of  his  meditations. 

"Be  that  as  it  may  be,  we  must  recognize  that  here  life 
is  more  tranquil  than  in  the  other  world.  Men  are  taken 
for  what  they  are  worth,  and  mingle  together  without 
thinking  whether  they  came  from  one  country  or  another. 
Over  here,  fellows  do  not  come  in  droves  to  kill  other 
fellows  whom  they  do  not  know  and  whose  only  crime 
is  that  they  were  born  in  an  unfriendly  country.  .  .  . 
Man  is  a  bad  beast  everywhere,  I  know  that ;  but  here  he 
eats,  owns  more  land  than  he  needs  so  that  he  can  stretch 
himself,  and  he  is  good  with  the  goodness  of  a  well-fed 
dog.  Over  there,  there  are  too  many ;  they  live  in  heaps 
getting  in  each  other's  way,  and  easily  run  amuck.  Hur- 
rah for  Peace,  Frenchy,  and  the  simple  life!  Where 
a  man  can  live  comfortably  and  runs  no  danger  of  be- 
ing killed  for  things  he  doesn't  understand — there  is  his 
real  homeland !" 

And  as  though  an  echo  of  the  rustic's  reflections,  Karl 
seated  at  the  piano,  began  chanting  in  a  low  voice  one 
of  Beethoven's  hymns — 

"We  sing  the  joy  of  life, 

We  sing  of  liberty, 
We'll  ne'few   betray  our  fellow-man. 

Though  great  the  guerdon  be-' 


66      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYr'SF. 

Peace!  ...  A  few  days  afterwards  Desnoyers  re- 
called bitterly  the  old  man's  illusion,  for  war — domestic 
war — ^broke  loose  in  this  idyllic  stage-setting  of  ranch 
life. 

"Run,  Senor  Manager,  the  old  Patron  has  unsheathed 
his  knife  and  is  going  to  kill  the  German!"  And  Des- 
noyers had  hurried  from  his  office,  warned  by  the  peon's 
summons.  Madariaga  was  chasing  Karl,  knife  in  hand, 
stumbling  over  everything  that  blocked  his  way.  Only 
his  son-in-law  dared  to  stop  him  and  disarm  him. 

"That  shameless  pedigreed  fellow !"  bellowed  the  livid 
old  man  as  he  writhed  in  Desnoyers'  firm  clutch.  "Half 
famished,  all  he  thinks  he  has  to  do  is  to  come  to  my 
house  and  take  away  my  daughters  and  dollars.  .  .  . 
Let  me  g^,  I  tell  you!  Let  me  loose  that  I  may  kill 
him." 

And  in  order  to  free  himself  from  Desnoyers,  he  tried 
further  to  explain  the  difficulty.  He  had  accepted  the 
Frenchman  as  a  husband  for  his  daughter  because  he 
was  to  his  liking,  modest,  honest  .  .  .  and  serious.  But 
this  singing  Pedigreed  Fellow,  with  all  his  airs!  .  .  . 
He  was  a  man  that  he  had  gotten  from  .  .  .  well,  he 
didn't  wish  to  say  just  where!  And  the  Frenchman, 
though  knowing  perfectly  well  what  his  introduction  to 
Karl  had  been,  pretended  not  to  understand  him. 

As  the  German  had,  by  this  time,  made  good  his  es- 
cape, the  ranchman  consented  to  being  pushed  toward 
his  house,  talking  all  the  time  about  giving  a  beating  to 
the  Rcmtantica  and  another  to  the  China  for  not  having 
informed  him  of  the  courtship.  He  had  surprised  his 
daughter  and  the  Gringo  holding  hands  and  exchanging 
kisses  in  a  grove  near  the  house. 

"He's  after  my  dollars,"  howled  the  irate  father.  "He 
wants  America  to  enrich  him  quickly  at  the  expense  of 
the  old  Spaniard,  and  that  is  the  reason  for  so  much 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  67 

truckling,  so  much  psalm-singing  and  so  much  nobility! 
Impostor!  .  .  .  Musician!" 

And  he  repeated  the  word  "musician"  with  contempt, 
as  though  it  were  the  sum  and  substance  of  everything 
vile. 

\^ery  firmly  and  with  few  words,  Desnoyers  brought 
the  wrangling  to  an  end.  While  her  brother-in-law  pro- 
tected her  retreat,  the  Romantica,  clinging  to  her 
mother,  had  taken  refuge  in  the  top  of  the  house,  sob- 
bing and  moaning,  "Oh,  the  poor  little  fellow!  Every- 
body against  him !"  Her  sister  meanwhile  was  exerting 
all  the  powers  of  a  discreet  daughter  with  the  rampa- 
geous old  man  in  the  office,  and  Desnoyers  had  gone  in 
search  of  Karl.  Finding  that  he  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  his  terrible  surprise,  he  gave  him  a 
horse,  advising  him  to  betake  himself  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible to  the  nearest  railway  station. 

Although  the  German  was  soon  far  from  the  ranch, 
he  did  not  long  remain  alone.  In  a  few  days,  the  Roman- 
tica followed  him.  .  .  ,  Iseult  of  the  white  hands  went 
in  search  of  Tristan,  the  knight. 

This  event  did  not  cause  Madariaga's  desperation  to 
break  out  as  violently  as  his  son-in-law  had  expected. 
For  the  first  time,  he  saw  him  weep.  His  gay  and  ro- 
bust old  age  had  suddenly  fallen  from  him,  the  news 
having  clapped  ten  years  on  to  his  four  score.  Like  a 
child,  whimpering  and  tremulous,  he  threw  his  arms 
around  Desnoyers,  moistening  his  neck  with  tears. 

"He  has  taken  her  away!  That  son  of  a  great  flea 
.  .  .  has  taken  her  away!" 

This  time  he  did  not  lay  all  the  blame  on  his  China. 
He  wept  with  her,  and  as  if  trj'ing  to  console  her  by  a 
public  confession,  kept  saying  over  and  over: 

*Tt  is  my  fault.  ...  It  has  all  been  because  of  my 
very,  very  great  sins." 


68      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Now  began  for  Desnoyers  a  period  of  difficulties  and 
conflicts.  The  fugitives,  on  one  of  his  visits  to  the  Capi- 
tal, threw  themselves  on  his  mercy,  imploring  his  pro- 
tection. The  Romantica  wept,  declaring  that  only  her 
brother-in-law,  "the  most  knightly  man  in  the  world," 
could  save  her.  Karl  gazed  at  him  like  a  faithful  hound 
trusting  in  his  master.  These  trying  interviews  were 
repeated  on  all  his  trips.  Then,  on  returning  to  the 
ranch,  he  would  find  the  old  man  ill-humored,  moody, 
looking  fixedly  ahead  of  him  as  though  seeing  invisible 
power  and  wailing,  'Tt  is  my  punishment — the  punish- 
ment for  my  sins." 

The  memory  of  the  discreditable  circumstances  under 
which  he  had  made  Karl's  acquaintance,  before  bringing 
him  into  his  home,  tormented  the  old  centaur  with  re- 
morse. Some  afternoons,  he  would  have  a  horse  saddled, 
going  full  gallop  toward  the  neighboring  village.  But 
he  was  no  longer  hunting  hospitable  ranches.  He  need- 
ed to  pass  some  time  in  the  church,  speaking  alone  with 
the  images  that  were  there  only  for  him — since  he  had 
footed  the  bills  for  them.  .  .  .  "Through  my  sin,  through 
my  very  great  sin !" 

But  in  spite  of  his  self-reproach,  Desnoyers  had  to 
work  very  hard  to  get  any  kind  of  a  settlement  out  of 
the  old  penitent.  Whenever  he  suggested  legalizing  the 
situation  and  making  the  necessary  arrangements  for 
their  marriage,  the  old  tyrant  would  not  let  him  go  on. 
"Do  what  you  think  best,  but  don't  say  anything  to  me 
about  it." 

Several  months  passed  by.  One  day  the  Frenchman 
approached  him  with  a  certain  air  of  mystery.  "Elena 
has  a  son  and  has  named  him  'Julio'  after  you." 

"And  you,  you  great  useless  hulk,"  stormed  the  ranch- 
man, "and  that  weak  cow  of  a  wife  of  yours,  you  dare 
to  live  tranquilly  on  without  giving  me  a  grandson !  .  .  . 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  69 

Ah,  Frenchy,  that  is  why  the  Germans  will  finally  over- 
whelm you.  You  see  it,  right  here.  That  bandit  has  a 
son,  while  you,  after  four  years  of  marriage  .  .  .  noth- 
ing.   I  want  a  grandson! — do  you  understand  that?" 

And  in  order  to  console  himself  for  this  lack  of  little 
ones  around  his  own  hearth,  he  betook  himself  to  the 
ranch  of  his  overseer,  Celedonio,  where  a  band  of  little 
half-breeds  gathered  tremblingly  and  hopefully  about 
him. 

Suddenly  China  died.  The  poor  Misia  Petrona  passed 
away  as  discreetly  as  she  had  lived,  trying  even  in  her 
last  hours  to  avoid  all  annoyance  for  her  husband,  ask- 
ing his  pardon  with  an  imploring  look  for  any  trouble 
which  her  death  might  cause  him.  Elena  came  to  the 
ranch  in  order  to  see  her  mother's  body  for  the  last  time, 
and  Desnoyers  who  for  more  than  a  year  had  been 
supporting  them  behind  his  father-in-law's  back,  took 
advantage  of  this  occasion  to  overcome  the  old  man's 
resentment. 

"Well,  I'll  forgive  her,"  said  the  ranchman  finally.  "I'll 
do  it  for  the  sake  of  my  poor  wife  and  for  you.  She 
may  remain  on  the  ranch,  and  that  shameless  gringo 
may  come  with  her." 

But  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  The  Ger- 
man was  to  be  an  employee  under  Desnoyers,  and  they 
could  live  in  the  office  building  as  though  they  did  not 
belong  to  the  family.  He  would  never  say  a  word  to 
Karl. 

But  scarcely  had  the  German  returned  before  he  began 
giving  him  orders  rudely  as  though  he  were  a  perfect 
stranger.  At  other  times  he  would  pass  by  him  as 
though  he  did  not  know  him.  Upon  finding  Elena  in 
the  house  with  his  older  daughter,  he  would  go  on  with- 
out speaking  to  her. 

In  vain  his  Romantica  transfigured  by  maternity,  im- 


70      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

proved  all  opportunities  for  putting  her  child  in  his  way, 
calling  him  loudly  by  name :  "Julio  .  .  .  Julio !" 

"They  want  that  brat  of  a  singing  gringo,  that  carrot 
top  with  a  face  like  a  skinned  kid  to  be  my  grandson? 
...  I  prefer  Celedonio's." 

And  by  way  of  emphasizing  his  protest,  he  entered  the 
dwelling  of  his  overseer,  scattering  among  his  dusky 
brood  handfuls  of  dollars. 

After  seven  years  of  marriage,  the  wife  of  Desnoyers 
found  that  she,  too,  was  going  to  become  a  mother.  Her 
sister  already  had  three  sons.  But  what  were  they  worth 
to  Madariaga  compared  to  the  grandson  that  was  going 
to  come?  "It  will  be  a  boy,"  he  announced  positively, 
"because  I  need  one  so.  It  shall  be  named  Julio,  and  I 
hope  that  it  will  look  like  my  poor  dead  wife." 

Since  the  death  of  his  wife  he  no  longer  called  her 
the  China,  feeling  something  of  a  posthumous  love  for 
the  poor  woman  who  in  her  lifetime  had  endured  so 
much,  so  timidly  and  silently.  Now  "my  poor  dead 
wife"  cropped  out  every  other  instant  in  the  conversation 
of  the  remorseful  ranchman. 

His  desires  were  fulfilled.  Luisa  gave  birth  to  a  boy 
who  bore  the  name  of  Julio,  and  although  he  did  not 
show  in  his  somewhat  sketchy  features  any  striking  re- 
semblance to  his  grandmother,  still  he  had  the  black  hair 
and  eyes  and  olive  skin  of  a  brunette.  Welcome!  .  .  . 
This  was  a  grandson ! 

In  the  generosity  of  his  joy,  he  even  permitted  the 
German  to  enter  the  house  for  the  baptismal  ceremony. 

When  Julio  Desnoyers  was  two  years  old,  his  grand- 
father made  the  rounds  of  his  estates,  holding  him  on  the 
saddle  in  front  of  him.  He  went  from  ranch  to  ranch 
in  order  to  show  him  to  the  copper-colored  populace, 
like  an  ancient  monarch  presenting  his  heir.  Later  on, 
when  the  child  was  able  to  say  a  few  words,  he  enter- 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CEXTAUR  71 

tained  himself  for  hours  at  a  time  talking  with  the  tot 
under  the  shade  of  the  eucalyptus  tree.  A  certain  mental 
failing  was  beginning  to  be  noticed  in  the  old  man.  Al- 
though not  exactly  in  his  dotage,  his  aggressiveness  was 
becoming  very  childish.  Even  in  his  most  affectionate 
moments,  he  used  to  contradict  everybody,  and  hunt  up 
ways  of  annoying  his  relatives. 

"Come  here,  you  false  prophet,"  he  would  say  to  Julio. 
"You  are  a  Frenchy." 

The  grandchild  protested  as  though  he  had  been  in- 
sulted. His  mother  had  taught  him  that  he  was  an  Ar- 
gentinian, and  his  father  had  suggested  that  she  also 
add  Spanish,  in  order  to  please  the  grandfather. 

"Very  well,  then;  if  you  are  not  a  Frenchy,  shout 
'Down  with  Napoleon !'  " 

And  he  looked  around  him  to  see  if  Desnoyers  might 
be  near,  believing  that  this  w'ould  displease  him  greatly. 
But  his  son-in-law  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  way, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"Down  with  Napoleon!"  repeated  Julio. 

And  he  instantly  held  out  his  hand  while  his  grand- 
father went  through  his  pockets. 

Karl's  sons,  now  four  in  number,  used  to  circle  around 
their  grandparent  like  a  humble  chorus  kept  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  stare  enviously  at  these  gifts.  In  order  to 
win  his  favor,  they  one  day  when  they  saw  him  alone, 
came  boldly  up  to  him,  shouting  in  unison,  "Down  with 
Napoleon !" 

"You  insolent  gringoes!"  ranted  the  old  man.  "That's 
what  that  shameless  father  has  taught  you!  If  you  say 
that  again,  I'll  chase  you  with  a  cat-o-nine  tails.  .  .  . 
The  very  idea  of  insulting  a  great  man  in  that  way!" 

While  he  tolerated  this  blond  brood,  he  never  would 
permit  the  slightest  intimacy.  Desnoyers  and  his  wife 
often  had  to  come  to  their  rescue,  accusing  the  grand- 


y2      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

father  of  injustice.  And  in  order  to  pour  the  vials  of 
his  wrath  out  on  someone,  the  old  plainsman  would  hunt 
up  Celedonio,  the  best  of  his  listeners,  who  invariably  re- 
plied, "Yes,  Patron.     That's  so,  Patron." 

"They're  not  to  blame,"  agreed  the  old  man,  "but  I 
can't  abide  them !  Besides,  they  are  so  like  their  father, 
so  fair,  with  hair  like  a  shredded  carrot,  and  the  two 
oldest  wearing  specs  as  if  they  w€re  court  clerks!  .  .  . 
They  don't  seem  like  folks  with  those  glasses ;  they  look 
like  sharks." 

Madariaga  had  never  seen  any  sharks,  but  he  imag- 
ined them,  without  knowing  why,  with  round,  glassy 
eyes,  like  the  bottoms  of  bottles. 

By  the  time  he  was  eight  years  old,  Julio  was  a  fa- 
mous little  equestrian.  "To  horse,  peoncito,"  his  grand- 
father would  cry,  and  away  they  would  race,  streaking 
like  lightning  across  the  fields,  midst  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  horned  herds.  The  "peoncito,"  proud  of  his 
title,  obeyed  the  master  in  everything,  and  so  learned  to 
whirl  the  lasso  over  the  steers,  leaving  them  bound  and 
conquered.  Upon  making  his  pony  take  a  deep  ditch 
or  creep  along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  he  sometimes  fell 
under  his  mount,  but  clambered  up  gamely. 

"Ah,  fine  cowboy!"  exclaimed  the  grandfather  burst- 
ing with  pride  in  his  exploits.  "Here  are  five  dollars 
for  you  to  give  a  handkerchief  to  some  china" 

The  old  man,  in  his  increasing  mental  confusion,  did 
not  gauge  his  gifts  exactly  with  the  lad's  years ;  and  the 
infantile  horseman,  while  keeping  the  money,  was  won- 
dering what  china  was  referred  to,  and  why  he  should 
make  her  a  present. 

Desnoyers  finally  had  to  drag  his  son  away  from  the 
baleful  teachings  of  his  grandfather.  It  was  simply  use- 
less to  have  masters  come  to  the  house,  or  to  send  Julio 
to  the  country  school.     Madariaga  would  always  steal 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  73 

his  grandson  away,  and  then  they  would  scour  the  plains 
together.  So  when  the  boy  was  eleven  years  old,  his 
father  placed  him  in  a  big  school  in  the  Capital. 

The  grandfather  then  turned  his  attention  to  Julio's 
three-year-old  sister,  exhibiting  her  before  him  as  he  had 
her  brother,  as  he  took  her  from  ranch  to  ranch.  Every- 
body called  Chicha's  little  girl  Chichi,  but  the  grand- 
father bestowed  on  her  the  same  nickname  that  he  had 
given  her  brother,  the  "peoncito."  And  Chichi,  who  was 
growing  up  wild,  vigorous  and  wilful,  breakfasting  on 
meat  and  talking  in  her  sleep  of  roast  beef,  readily  fell 
in  with  the  old  man's  tastes.  She  was  dressed  like  a 
boy,  rode  astride  like  a  man,  and  in  order  to  win  her 
grandfather's  praises  as  "fine  cowboy,"  carried  a  knife 
in  the  back  of  her  belt.  The  two  raced  the  fields  from 
sun  to  sun,  Madariaga  following  the  flying  pigtail  of 
the  little  Amazon  as  though  it  were  a  flag.  When  nine 
years  old  she,  too,  could  lasso  the  cattle  with  much  dex- 
terity. 

What  most  irritated  the  ranchman  was  that  his  family 
would  remember  his  age.  He  received  as  insults  his 
son-in-law's  counsels  to  remain  quietly  at  home,  becom- 
ing more  aggressive  and  reckless  as  he  advanced  in 
years,  exaggerating  his  activity,  as  if  he  wished  to  drive 
Death  away.  He  accepted  no  help  except  from  his 
harum-scarum  "Peoncito."  When  Karl's  children,  great 
hulking  youngsters,  hastened  to  his  assistance  and  offered 
to  hold  his  stirrup,  he  would  repel  them  with  snorts  of 
indignation. 

"So  you  think  I  am  no  longer  able  to  help  myself,  eh ! 
.  .  .  There's  still  enough  life  in  me  to  make  those  who 
are  waiting  for  me  to  die,  so  as  to  grab  my  dollars,  chew 
their  disappointment  a  long  while  yet!" 

Since  the  German  and  his  wife  were  kept  pointedly 
apart  from  the  family  life,  they  had  to  put  up  with  these 


74      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

allusions  in  silence.  Karl,  needing  protection,  constantly 
shadowed  the  Frenchman,  improving  every  opportunity 
to  overwhelm  him  with  his  eulogies.  He  never  could 
thank  him  enough  for  all  that  he  had  done  for  him. 
He  was  his  only  champion.  He  longed  for  a  chance  to 
prove  his  gratitude,  to  die  for  him  if  necessary.  His 
wife  admired  him  with  enthusiasm  as  "the  most  gifted 
knight  in  the  world."  And  Desnoyers  received  their  de- 
votion in  gratified  silence,  accepting  the  German  as  an 
excellent  comrade.  As  he  controlled  absolutely  the  fam- 
ily fortune,  he  aided  Karl  very  generously  without  arous- 
ing the  resentment  of  the  old  man.  He  also  took  the 
initiative  in  bringing  about  the  realization  of  Karl's  pet 
ambition — a  visit  to  the  Fatherland.  So  many  years  in 
America!  .  .  .  For  the  very  reason  that  Desnoyers  him- 
self had  no  desire  to  return  to  Europe,  he  wished  to 
facilitate  Karl's  trip,  and  gave  him  the  means  to  make 
the  journey  with  his  entire  family.  The  father-in-law 
had  no  curiosity  as  to  who  paid  the  expenses.  "Let  them 
go !"  he  said  gleefully,  "and  may  they  never  return !" 

Their  absence  was  not  a  very  long  one,  for  they 
spent  their  year's  allowance  in  three  months.  Karl,  who 
had  apprised  his  parents  of  the  great  fortune  which  his 
marriage  had  brought  him,  wished  to  make  an  impres- 
sion as  a  millionaire,  in  full  enjoyment  of  his  riches. 
Elena  returned  radiant,  speaking  with  pride  of  her  rela- 
tives— of  the  baron.  Colonel  of  Hussars,  of  the  Captain 
of  the  Guard,  of  the  Councillor  at  Court — asserting  that 
all  countries  were  most  insignificant  when  compared 
with  her  husband's.  She  even  affected  a  certain  con- 
descension toward  Desnoyers,  praising  him  as  "a  very 
worthy  man,  but  without  ancient  lineage  or  distinguished 
family — and  French,  besides." 

Karl,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  the  same  devotion 
as  before,  keeping  himself   submissively  in  the  back- 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  75 

ground  when  with  his  brother-in-law  who  had  the  keys 
of  the  cash  box  and  was  his  only  defense  against  the 
browbeating  old  Patron.  .  ,  .  He  had  left  his  two  older 
sons  in  a  school  in  Germany.  Years  afterwards  they 
reached  an  equal  footing  with  the  other  grandchildren 
of  the  Spaniard  who  always  begrudged  them  their  ex- 
istence, "perfect  frights,  with  carroty  hair,  and  eyes  like 
a  shark." 

Suddenly  the  old  man  became  very  lonely,  for  they  had 
also  carried  off  his  second  "Peoncito."  The  good  Chicha 
could  not  tolerate  her  daughter's  growing  up  like  a  boy, 
parading  'round  on  horseback  all  the  time,  and  glibly 
repeating  her  grandfather's  vulgarities.  So  she  was  now 
in  a  convent  in  the  Capital,  where  the  Sisters  had  to 
battle  valiantly  in  order  to  tame  the  mischievous  rebel- 
lion of  their  wild  little  pupil. 

When  Julio  and  Chichi  returned  to  the  ranch  for  their 
vacations,  the  grandfather  again  concentrated  his  fond- 
ness on  the  first,  as  though  the  girl  had  merely  been  a 
substitute.  Desnoyers  was  becoming  indignant  at  his 
son's  dissipated  life.  He  was  no  longer  at  college,  and 
his  existence  was  that  of  a  student  in  a  rich  family  who 
makes  up  for  parental  parsimony  with  all  sorts  of  im- 
prudent borrowings. 

But  Madariaga  came  to  the  defense  of  his  grandson. 
"Ah,  the  fine  cowboy!"  .  .  .  Seeing  him  again  on  the 
ranch,  he  admired  the  dash  of  the  good  looking  youth, 
testing  his  muscles  in  order  to  convince  himself  of  their 
strength,  and  making  him  to  recount  his  nightly  esca- 
pades as  ringleader  of  a  band  of  toughs  in  the  Capital. 
He  longed  to  go  to  Buenos  Aires  himself,  just  to  see  the 
youngster  in  the  midst  of  this  gay,  wild  life.  But  alas ! 
he  was  not  seventeen  like  his  grandson;  he  had  already 
passed  eighty. 

"Come  here,  you  false  prophet!     Tell  me  how  many 


76      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

children  you  have.  .  .  .  You  must  have  a  great  many 
children,  you  know!" 

"Father!"  protested  Chicha  who  was  always  hanging 
around,  fearing  her  parent's  bad  teachings. 

"Stop  nagging  at  me!"  yelled  the  irate  old  fellow  in 
a  towering  temper.     "I  know  what  I'm  saying." 

Paternity  figured  largely  in  all  his  amorous  fancies. 
He  was  almost  blind,  and  the  loss  of  his  sight  was  ac- 
companied by  an  increasing  mental  upset.  His  crazy 
senility  took  on  a  lewd  character,  expressing  itself  in 
language  which  scandalized  or  amused  the  community. 

"Oh,  you  rascal,  what  a  pretty  fellow  you  are!"  he 
said,  leering  at  Julio  with  eyes  which  could  no  longer 
distinguish  things  except  in  a  shadowy  way.  "You  are 
the  living  image  of  my  poor  dead  wife.  .  .  .  Have  a 
good  time,  for  Grandpa  is  always  here  with  his  money! 
If  you  could  only  count  on  what  your  father  gives  you, 
you  would  live  like  a  hermit.  These  Frenchies  are  a 
close-fisted  lot!  But  I  am  looking  out  for  you.  Peon- 
cito !  Spend  and  enjoy  yourself — that's  what  your 
Granddaddy  has  piled  up  the  silver  for !" 

When  the  Desnoyers  children  returned  to  the  Capital 
he  spent  his  lonesome  hours  in  going  from  ranch  to 
ranch.  A  young  half-breed  would  set  the  water  for  his 
shrub  tea  to  boiling  on  the  hearth,  and  the  old  man  would 
wonder  confusedly  if  she  were  his  daughter.  Another, 
fifteen  years  old,  would  offer  him  a  gourd  filled  with  the 
bitter  liquid  and  a  silver  pipe  with  which  to  sip  it.  .  .  . 
A  grandchild,  perhaps — he  wasn't  sure.  And  so  he 
passed  the  afternoons,  silent  and  sluggish,  drinking 
gourd  after  gourd  of  shrub  tea,  surrounded  by  families 
who  stared  at  him  with  admiration  and  fear. 

Every  time  he  mounted  his  horse  for  these  excursions, 
his  older  daughter  would  protest.  "At  eighty-four 
years !    Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  remain  quietly 


MADARIAGA,  THE  CENTAUR  77 

at  home.  .  .  .  Some  day  something  terrible  would  hap- 
pen!" .  .  .  And  the  terrible  thing  did  happen.  One  eve- 
ning the  Patron's  horse  came  slowly  home  without  its 
rider.  The  old  man  had  fallen  on  the  sloping  highway, 
and  when  they  found  him,  he  was  dead.  Thus  died  the 
centaur  as  he  had  lived,  with  the  lash  hanging  from 
his  wrist,  with  his  legs  bowed  by  the  saddle. 

A  Spanish  notary,  almost  as  old  as  he,  produced  the 
will.  The  family  was  somewhat  alarmed  at  seeing  what 
a  voluminous  document  it  was.  What  terrible  bequests 
had  Madariaga  dictated?  The  reading  of  the  first  part 
tranquilized  Karl  and  Elena.  The  old  father  had  left 
considerably  more  to  the  wife  of  Desnoyers,  but  there 
still  remained  an  enormous  share  for  the  Romantica  and 
her  children.  "I  do  this,"  he  said,  "in  memory  of. my 
poor  dead  wife,  and  so  that  people  won't  talk." 

After  this,  came  eighty-six  legacies.  Eighty-five  dark- 
hued  individuals  (women  and  men),  who  had  lived  on 
the  ranch  for  many  years  as  tenants  and  retainers,  were 
to  receive  the  last  paternal  munificence  of  the  old  pa- 
triarch. At  the  head  of  these  was  Celedonio  whom 
Madariaga  had  greatly  enriched  in  his  lifetime  for  no 
heavier  work  than  listening  to  him  and  repeating,  "That's 
so,  Patron,  that's  true !"  More  than  a  million  dollars 
were  represented  by  these  bequests  in  lands  and  herds. 
The  one  who  completed  the  list  of  beneficiaries  was  Julio 
Desnoyers.  The  grandfather  had  made  special  men- 
tion of  this  namesake,  leaving  him  a  plantation  "to 
meet  his  private  expenses,  making  up  for  that  wbichi 
his  father  would  not  give  him." 

"But  that  represents  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dol- 
lars!" protested  Karl,  who  had  been  making  himself  al- 
most obnoxious  in  his  efforts  to  assure  himself  that  his 
wife  had  not  been  overlooked  in  the  will. 

The  days  following  the  reading  of  this  will  were  very 


78      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

trying  ones  for  the  family.  Elena  and  her  children  kept 
looking  at  the  other  group  as  though  they  had  just 
waked  up,  contemplating  them  in  an  entirely  new  light. 
They  seemed  to  forget  what  they  were  going  to  receive 
in  their  envy  of  the  much  larger  share  of  their  rela- 
tives. 

Desnoyers,  benevolent  and  conciliatory,  had  a  plan. 
An  expert  in  administrative  affairs,  he  realized  that  the 
distribution  among  the  heirs  was  going  to  double  the 
expenses  without  increasing  the  income.  He  was  cal- 
culating, besides,  the  complications  and  disbursements 
necessary  for  a  judicial  division  of  nine  immense  ranches, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  cattle,  deposits  in  the  banks, 
houses  in  the  city,  and  debts  to  collect.  Would  it  not 
be  better  for  them  all  to  continue  living  as  before?  .  .  . 
Had  they  not  lived  most  peaceably  as  a  united  fam- 
ily? .  .  . 

The  German  received  this  suggestion  by  drawing  him- 
self up  haughtily.  No;  to  each  one  should  be  given 
what  was  his.  Let  each  live  in  his  own  sphere.  He 
wished  to  establish  himself  in  Europe,  spending  his 
wealth  freely  there.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  return 
to  "his  world." 

As  they  looked  squarely  at  each  other,  Desnoyers  saw 
an  unknown  Karl,  a  Karl  whose  existence  he  had  never 
suspected  when  he  was  under  his  protection,  timid  and 
servile.  The  Frenchman,  too,  was  beginning  to  see 
things  in  a  new  light. 

"Very  well,"  he  assented.  "Let  each  take  his  own. 
That  seems  fair  to  me." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY 

The  "Madariagan  succession,"  as  it  was  called  in  the 
language  of  the  legal  men  interested  in  prolonging  it  in 
order  to  augment  their  fees — ^was  divided  into  two 
groups,  separated  by  the  ocean.  The  Desnoyers  moved 
to  Buenos  Aires.  The  Hartrotts  moved  to  Berlin  as 
soon  as  Karl  could  sell  all  the  legacy,  to  re-invest  it  in 
lands  and  industrial  enterprises  in  his  own  country. 

Desnoyers  no  longer  cared  to  live  in  the  country.  For 
twenty  years,  now,  he  had  been  the  head  of  an  enor- 
mous agricultural  and  stock  raising  business,  oversee- 
ing hundreds  of  men  in  the  various  ranches.  The  par- 
celling out  of  the  old  man's  fortune  among  Elena  and 
the  other  legatees  had  considerably  constricted  the  ra- 
dius of  his  authority,  and  it  angered  him  to  see  estab- 
lished on  the  neighboring  lands  so  many  foreigners,  al- 
most all  Germans,  who  had  bought  of  Karl.  Further- 
more, he  was  getting  old,  his  wife's  inheritance  amount- 
ed to  about  twenty  millions  of  dollars,  and  perhaps  his 
brother-in-law  was  showing  the  better  judgment  in  re- 
turning to  Europe. 

So  he  leased  some  of  the  plantations,  handed  over  the 
superintendence  of  others  to  those  mentioned  in  the  will 
who  considered  themselves  left-handed  members  of  the 
family — of  which  Desnoyers  as  the  Patron  received  their 
submissive  allegiance — and  moved  to  Buenos  Aires. 

By  this  move,  he  was  able  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  son 
who  continued  living  a  dissipated  life  without  making 

79 


8o      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

any  headway  in  his  engineering  studies.  Then,  too,  Chi- 
chi was  now  almost  a  woman — her  robust  development 
making  her  look  older  than  she  was — and  it  was  not  ex- 
pedient to  keep  her  on  the  estate  to  become  a  rustic 
senorita  like  her  mother. 

Dona  Luisa  had  also  tired  of  ranch  life,  the  social  tri- 
umphs of  her  sister  making  her  a  little  restless.  She  was 
incapable  of  feeling  jealous,  but  material  ambitions  made 
her  anxious  that  her  children  should  not  bring  up  the 
rear  of  the  procession  in  which  the  other  grandchildren 
were  cutting  such  a  dashing  figure. 

During  the  year,  most  wonderful  reports  from  Ger- 
many were  finding  their  way  to  the  Desnoyers  home 
in  the  Capital.  "The  aunt  from  Berlin,"  as  the  children 
called  her,  kept  sending  long  letters  filled  with  accounts 
of  dances,  dinners,  hunting  parties  and  titles — many 
high-sounding  and  military  titles; — "our  brother,  the 
Colonel,"  "our  cousin,  the  Baron,"  "our  uncle,  the  Inti- 
mate Councillor,"  "our  great-uncle,  the  Truly  Intimate." 
All  the  extravagances  of  the  German  social  ladder,  which 
incessantly  manufactures  new  titles  in  order  to  satisfy 
the  thirst  for  honors  of  a  people  divided  into  castes,  were 
enumerated  with  delight  by  the  old  Romantica.  She 
even  mentioned  her  husband's  secretary  (a  nobody)  who, 
through  working  in  the  public  offices,  had  acquired  the 
title  of  Rechnungarath,  Councillor  of  Calculations.  She 
also  referred  with  much  pride  to  the  retired  Oberpedell 
which  she  had  in  her  house,  explaining  that  that  meant 
"Superior  Porter." 

The  news  about  her  children  was  no  less  glorious.  The 
oldest  was  the  wise  one  of  the  family.  He  was  devoted 
to  philology  and  the  historical  sciences,  but  his  sight 
was  growing  weaker  all  the  time  beca.^se  of  his  om- 
nivorous reading.  Soon  he  would  be  a  Doctor,  and  be- 
fore he  was  thirty,  a  Herr  Professor.    The  mother  la- 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  8i 

mented  that  he  had  not  military  aspirations,  considering 
that  his  tastes  had  somewhat  distorted  the  lofty  destinies 
of  the  family.  Professorships,  sciences  and  literature 
were  more  properly  the  perquisites  of  the  Jews,  unable, 
because  of  their  race,  to  obtain  preferment  in  the  army; 
but  she  was  trying  to  console  herself  by  keeping  in  mind 
that  a  celebrated  professor  could,  in  time,  acquire  a  so- 
cial rank  almost  equal  to  that  of  a  colonel. 

Her  other  four  sons  would  become  officers.  Their 
father  was  preparing  the  ground  so  that  they  might  en- 
ter the  Guard  or  some  aristocratic  regiment  without  any 
of  the  members  being  able  to  vote  against  their  admis- 
sion. The  two  daughters  would  surely  marry,  when 
they  had  reached  a  suitable  age  with  officers  of  the 
Hussars  whose  names  bore  the  magic  "von"  of  petty  no- 
bility, haughty  and  charming  gentlemen  about  whom 
the  daughter  of  Misia  Petrona  waxed  most  enthusias- 
tic. 

The  establishment  of  the  Hartrotts  was  in  keeping 
with  these  new  relationships.  In  the  home  in  Berlin, 
the  servants  wore  knee-breeches  and  white  wigs  on  the 
nights  of  great  banquets.  Karl  had  bought  an  old  castle 
with  pointed  towers,  ghosts  in  the  cellars,  and  various 
legends  of  assassinations,  assaults  and  abductions  which 
enlivened  its  history  in  an  interesting  way.  An  archi- 
tect, decorated  with  many  foreign  orders,  and  bearing 
the  title  of  "Councillor  of  Construction,"  was  engaged 
to  modernize  the  mediaeval  edifice  without  sacrificing  its 
terrifying  aspect.  The  Romantica  described  in  antici- 
pation the  receptions  in  the  gloomy  salon,  the  light  dif- 
fused by  electricity,  simulating  torches,  the  crackling 
of  the  emblazoned  hearth  with  its  imitation  logs  bristling 
with  flames  of  gas,  all  the  splendor  of  modem  luxury 
combined  with  the  souvenirs  of  an  epoch  of  omnipotent 
nobility — the  best,   according  to  her,   in  history.     And 


82      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  hunting  parties,  the  future  hunting  parties!  ...  in 
an  annex  of  sandy  and  loose  soil  with  pine  woods — in 
no  way  comparable  to  the  rich  ground  of  their  native 
ranch,  but  which  had  the  honor  of  being  trodden  cen- 
turies ago  by  the  Princes  of  Brandenburg,  founders  of 
the  reigning  house  of  Prussia.  And  all  this  advance- 
ment in  a  single  year!  .  .  . 

They  had,  of  course,  to  compete  with  other  oversea 
families  who  had  amassed  enormous  fortunes  in  the 
United  States,  Brazil  or  the  Pacific  coast ;  but  these  were 
Germans  "without  lineage,"  coarse  plebeians  who  were 
struggling  in  vain  to  force  themselves  into  the  great 
world  by  making  donations  to  the  imperial  works.  With 
all  their  millions,  the  very  most  that  they  could  ever 
hope  to  attain  would  be  to  marry  their  daughters  with 
ordinary  soldiers.  Whilst  Karl!  .  .  .  The  relatives  of 
Karl !  .  .  .  and  the  Romantica  let  her  pen  run  on,  glori- 
fying a  family  in  whose  bosom  she  fancied  she  had  been 
bom. 

From  time  to  time  were  enclosed  with  Elena's  effu- 
sions brief,  crisp  notes  directed  to  Desnoyers.  The 
brother-in-law  continued  giving  an  account  of  his  oper- 
ations the  same  as  when  living  on  the  ranch  under  his 
protection.  But  with  this  deference  was  now  mixed  a 
badly  concealed  pride,  an  evident  desire  to  retaliate  for 
his  times  of  voluntary  humiliation.  Everything  that  he 
was  doing  wi:  Ji^'^^*!  ^"<i  glorious.  He  had  investett 
his  millions  in  the  industrial  enterprises  of  modem  Ger- 
many. He  was  stockholder  of  munition  factories  as  big 
as  towns,  and  of  navigation  companies  launching  a  ship 
every  half  year.  The  Emperor  was  interesting  himself 
in  these  works,  looking  benevolently  on  all  those  who 
wished  to  aid  him.  Besides  this,  Karl  was  buying  land. 
At  first  sight,  it  seemed  foolish  to  have  sold  the  fer- 
tile fields  of  their  inheritance  in  order  to  acquire  sandy 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  83 

Prussian  wastes  that  yielded  only  to  much  artificial  fer- 
tilizing ;  but  by  becoming  a  land  owner,  he  now  belonged 
to  the  "Agrarian  Party,"  the  aristocratic  and  conserva- 
tive group  par  excellence,  and  thus  he  was  living  in  two 
different  but  equally  distinguished  worlds — ^that  of  the 
great  industrial  friends  of  the  Emperor,  and  that  of  the 
Junkers,  knights  of  the  countryside,  guardians  of  the 
old  traditions  and  the  supply-source  of  the  officials  of 
the  King  of  Prussia. 

On  hearing  of  these  social  strides,  Desnoyers  could  not 
but  think  of  the  pecuniary  sacrifices  which  they  must 
represent.  He  knew  Karl's  past,  for  on  the  ranch,  un- 
der an  impulse  of  gratitude,  the  German  had  one  day 
revealed  to  the  Frenchman  the  cause  of  his  coming  to 
America.  He  was  a  former  officer  in  the  German  army, 
but  the  desire  of  living  ostentatiously  without  other  re- 
sources than  his  salary,  had  dragged  him  into  commit- 
ting such  reprehensible  acts  as  abstracting  funds  belong- 
ing to  the  regiment,  incurring  debts  of  honor  and  paying 
for  them  with  forged  signatures.  These  crimes  had  not 
been  officially  prosecuted  through  consideration  of  his 
father's  memor}',  but  the  members  of  his  division  had 
submitted  him  to  a  tribunal  of  honor.  His  brothers  and 
friends  had  advised  him  to  shoot  himself  as  the  only 
remedy ;  but  he  loved  life  and  had  fled  to  South  America 
where,  in  spite  of  humiliations,  he  had  finally  triumphed. 

Wealth  effaces  the  spots  of  the  past  even  more  rapidly 
than  Time.  The  news  of  his  fortune  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ocean  made  his  family  give  him  a  warm  reception 
on  his  first  voyage  home ;  introducing  him  again  into 
their  world.  Nobody  could  remember  shameful  stories 
about  a  few  hundred  marks  concerning  a  man  who  was 
talking  about  his  father-in-law's  lands,  more  extensive 
than  many  German  principalities.  Now,  upon  installing 
himself  definitely  in  his  country,  all  was  forgotten.     But. 


84      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

oh,  the  contributions  levied  upon  his  vanity  .  .  .  Des- 
noyers  shrewdly  guessed  at  the  thousands  of  marks 
poured  v^^ith  both  hands  into  the  charitable  works  of  the 
Empress,  into  the  imperialistic  propagandas,  into  the 
societies  of  veterans,  into  the  clubs  of  aggression  and 
expansion  organized  by  German  ambition. 

The  frugal  Frenchman,  thrifty  in  his  expenditures  and 
free  from  social  ambitions,  smiled  at  the  grandeurs  of  his 
brother-in-law.  He  considered  Karl  an  excellent  com- 
panion although  of  a  childish  pride.  He  recalled  with 
satisfaction  the  years  that  they  had  passed  together  in 
the  country.  He  could  not  forget  the  German  who  was 
always  hovering  around  him,  affectionate  and  submissive 
as  a  younger  brother.  When  his  family  commented  with 
a  somewhat  envious  vivacity  upon  the  glories  of  their 
Berlin  relatives,  Desnoyers  would  say  smilingly,  "Leave 
them  in  peace;  they  are  paying  very  dear  for  their 
whistle." 

But  the  enthusiasm  which  the  letters  from  Germany 
breathed  finally  created  an  atmosphere  of  disquietude  and 
rebellion.  Chichi  led  the  attack.  Why  were  they  not 
going  to  Europe  like  other  folks?  all  their  friends  had 
been  there.  Even  the  Italian  and  Spanish  shopkeepers 
were  making  the  voyage  while  she,  the  daughter  of  a 
Frenchman,  had  never  seen  Paris!  .  .  Oh,  Paris.  The 
doctors  in  attendance  on  melancholy  ladies  were  announc- 
ing the  existence  of  a  new  and  terrible  disease,  "the 
mania  for  Paris."  Dona  Luisa  supported  her  daughter. 
Why  had  she  not  gone  to  live  in  Europe  like  her  sister, 
since  she  was  the  richer  of  the  two?  Even  Julio  gravely 
declared  that  in  the  old  world  he  could  study  to  better 
advantage.    America  is  not  the  land  of  the  learned. 

Infected  by  the  general  unrest,  the  father  finally  began 
to  wonder  why  the  idea  of  going  to  Europe  had  not 
occurred  to  him  long  before.    Thivty-four  years  without 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  85 

going  to  that  country  which  was  not  his !  ...  It  was  high 
time  to  start !  He  was  living  too  near  to  his  business.  In 
vain  the  retired  ranchman  had  tried  to  keep  himself 
indifferent  to  the  money  market.  Everybody  was  coin- 
ing money  around  him.  In  the  club,  in  the  theatre, 
wherever  he  went,  the  people  were  talking  about  pur- 
chases of  lands,  of  sales  of  stock,  of  quick  negotiations 
with  a  triple  profit,  of  portentous  balances.  The  amount 
of  money  that  he  was  keeping  idle  in  the  banks  was 
beginning  to  weigh  upon  him.  He  finally  ended  by 
involving  himself  in  some  speculation ;  like  a  gambler 
who  cannot  see  the  roulette  wheel  without  putting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket. 

His  family  was  right.  "To  Paris !"  For  in  the  Desnoy- 
ers'  mind,  to  go  to  Europe  meant,  of  course,  to  go  to 
Paris.  Let  the  "aunt  from  Berlin"  keep  on  chanting  the 
glories  of  her  husband's  country  1  "It's  sheer  nonsense  !" 
exclaimed  Julio,  who  had  made  grave  geographical  and 
ethnic  comparisons  in  his  nightly  forays.  "There  is  no 
place  but  Paris !"  Chichi  saluted  with  an  ironical  smile 
the  slightest  doubt  of  it — "Perhaps  they  make  as  elegant 
fashions  in  Germany  as  in  Paris!  .  .  .  Bah!"  Dona 
Luisa  took  up  her  children's  cry.  "Paris!"  .  .  .  Never 
had  it  even  occurred  to  her  to  go  to  a  Lutheran  land  to 
be  protected  by  her  sister. 

"Let  it  be  Paris,  then !"  said  the  Frenchman,  as  though 
he  were  speaking  of  an  unknown  city. 

He  had  accustomed  himself  to  believe  that  he  would 
never  return  to  it.  During  the  first  years  of  his  life  in 
America,  the  trip  would  have  been  an  impossibility  be- 
cause of  the  military  service  which  he  had  evaded.  Then 
he  had  vague  news  of  different  amnesties.  After  the 
time  for  conscription  had  long  since  passed,  an  inertness 
of  will  had  made  him  consider  a  return  to  his  country  as 
somewhat  absurd  and  useless.     On  the  other  side,  noth- 


86      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ing  remained  to  attract  him.  He  had  even  lost  track  of 
those  country  relatives  with  whom  his  mother  had  hved. 
In  his  heaviest  hours  he  had  tried  to  occupy  his  activity 
by  planning  an  enormous  mausoleum,  all  of  marble,  in 
La  Recoleta,  the  cemetery  of  the  rich,  in  order  to  move 
thither  the  remains  of  Madariaga  as  founder  of  the 
dynasty,  following  him  with  all  his  own  when  their  hour 
should  come.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  the  weight  of 
age.  He  was  nearly  seventy  years  old,  and  the  rude  life 
of  the  country,  the  horseback  rides  in  the  rain,  the  rivers 
forded  upon  his  swimming  horse,  the  nights  passed  in  the 
open  air,  had  brought  on  a  rheumatism  that  was  tortur- 
ing his  best  days. 

His  family,  however,  reawakened  his  enthusiasm.  "To 
Paris !"  .  .  .  He  began  to  fancy  that  he  was  twenty  again, 
and  forgetting  his  habitual  parsimony,  wished  his  house- 
hold to  travel  like  royalty,  in  the  most  luxurious  state- 
rooms, and  with  personal  servants.  Two  copper-hued 
country  girls,  born  on  the  ranch  and  elevated  to  the  rank 
of  maids  to  the  senora  and  her  daughter,  accompanied 
them  on  the  voyage,  their  oblique  eyes  betraying  not  the 
slightest  astonishment  before  the  greatest  novelties. 

Once  in  Paris,  Desnoyers  found  himself  quite  bewil- 
dered. He  confused  the  names  of  streets,  proposed  visits 
to  buildings  which  had  long  since  disappeared,  and  all  his 
attempts  to  prove  himself  an  expert  authority  on  Paris 
were  attended  with  disappointment.  His  children,  guided 
by  recent  reading  up,  knew  Paris  better  than  he.  He  was 
considered  a  foreigner  in  his  own  country.  At  first,  he 
even  felt  a  certain  strangeness  in  using  his  native  tongue, 
for  he  had  remained  on  the  ranch  without  speaking  a 
word  of  his  language  for  years  at  a  time.  He  was  used 
to  thinking  in  Spanish,  and  translating  his  ideas  into  the 
speech  of  his  ancestors,  spattered  his  French  with  all 
kinds  of  Creole  dialect. 


THE  DESXOYERS  FAMILY  87 

"Where  a  man  makes  his  fortune  and  raises  his  family, 
there  is  his  true  country,"  he  said  sententiously,  remem- 
bering Madariaga. 

The  image  of  that  distant  country  dominated  him  with 
insistent  obsession  as  soon  as  the  impressions  of  the 
voyage  had  worn  off.  He  had  no  French  friends,  and 
upon  going  into  the  street,  his  feet  instinctively  took  him 
to  the  places  where  the  Argentinians  gathered  together. 
It  was  the  same  with  them.  They  had  left  their  country 
only  to  feel,  with  increasing  intensity,  the  desire  to  talk 
about  it  all  the  time.  There  he  read  the  papers,  com- 
menting on  the  rising  prices  in  the  fields,  on  the  prospects 
for  the  next  harvests  and  on  the  sales  of  cattle.  Return- 
ing home,  his  thoughts  were  still  in  America,  and  he 
chuckled  with  delight  as  he  recalled  the  way  in  which  the 
two  chinas  had  defied  the  professional  dignity  of  the 
French  cook,  preparing  their  native  stews  and  other 
dishes  in  Creole  style. 

He  had  settled  the  family  in  an  ostentatious  house  in 
the  at'enida  Victor  Hugo,  for  which  he  paid  a  rental  of 
twenty-eight  thousand  francs.  Dona  Luisa  had  to  go  and 
come  many  times  before  she  could  accustom  herself 
to  the  imposing  aspect  of  the  concierges — he,  decorated 
with  gold  trimmings  on  his  black  uniform  and  wearing 
white  whiskers  like  a  notary  in  a  comedy,  she  with  a 
chain  of  gold  upon  her  exuberant  bosom,  and  receiving 
the  tenants  in  a  red  and  gold  salon.  In  the  rooms  above 
was  ultra-modern  luxury,  gilded  and  glacial,  with  white 
walls  and  glass  doors  with  tiny  panes  which  exasperated 
Desnoyers,  who  longed  for  the  complicated  carvings  and 
rich  furniture  in  vogue  during  his  youth.  He  himself 
directed  the  arrangement  and  furnishings  of  the  various 
rooms  which  always  seemed  empty. 

Chichi  protested  against  her  father's  avarice  when  she 
saw  him  buying  slowly  and  with  much  calculation  and 


88      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

hesitation.  "Avarice,  no!"  he  retorted,  "it  is  because  I 
know  the  worth  of  things." 

Nothing  pleased  him  that  he  had  not  acquired  at  one- 
third  of  its  value.  Beating  down  those  who  overcharged 
hut  proved  the  superiority  of  the  buyer.  Paris  offered 
him  one  delightful  spot  which  he  could  not  find  anywhere 
else  in  the  world — the  Hotel  Drouot.  He  would  go  there 
€very  afternoon  that  he  did  not  find  other  important  auc- 
tions advertised  in  the  papers.  For  many  years,  there 
was  no  famous  failure  in  Parisian  life,  with  its  conse- 
quent liquidation,  from  which  he  did  not  carry  something 
away.  The  use  and  need  of  these  prizes  were  matters  of 
secondary  interest,  the  great  thing  was  to  get  them  for 
ridiculous  prices.  So  the  trophies  from  the  auction- 
rooms  now  began  to  inundate  the  apartment  which,  at 
the  beginning,  he  had  been  furnishing  with  such  desperate 
slowness. 

His  daughter  now  complained  that  the  home  was  get- 
ting overcrowded.  The  furnishings  and  ornaments  were 
handsome,  but  too  many  .  .  .  far  too  many!  The  white 
walls  seemed  to  scowl  at  the  magnificent  sets  of  chairs 
and  the  overflowing  glass  cabinets.  Rich  and  velvety 
carpets  over  which  had  passed  many  generations,  cov- 
ered all  the  compartments.  Showy  curtains,  not  finding 
a  vacant  frame  in  the  salons,  adorned  the  doors  leading 
into  the  kitchen.  The  wall  mouldings  gradually  dis- 
appeared under  an  overlay  of  pictures,  placed  close 
together  like  the  scales^  of  a  cuirass.  Who  now  could 
accuse  Desnoyers  of  avarice?  .  .  .  He  was  investing  far 
more  than  a  fashionable  contractor  would  have  dreamed 
of  spending. 

,The  underlying  idea  still  was  to  acquire  all  this  for  a 
fourth  of  its  price — an  exciting  bait  which  lured  the 
economical  man  into  continuous  dissipation.  He  could 
sleep  well  only  when  he  had  driven  a  good  bargain  during 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  89 

the  day.  He  bought  at  auction  thousands  of  bottles  of 
wine  consigned  by  bankrupt  firms,  and  he  who  scarcely 
ever  drank,  packed  his  wine  cellars  to  overflowing,  advis- 
ing his  family  to  use  the  champagne  as  freely  as  ordinary 
wine.  The  failure  of  a  furrier  induced  him  to  buy  for 
fourteen  thousand  francs  pelts  worth  ninety  thousand. 
In  consequence,  the  entire  Desnoyers  family  seemed  sud- 
denly to  be  suffering  as  frightfully  from  cold  as  though 
a  polar  iceberg  had  invaded  the  avenida  Victor  Hugo, 
The  father  kept  only  one  fur  coat  for  himself  but  ordered 
three  for  his  son.  Chichi  and  Dona  Luisa  appeared 
arrayed  in  all  kinds  of  silky  and  luxurious  skins — one 
day  chinchilla,  other  days  blue  fox,  marten  or  seal. 

The  enraptured  buyer  would  permit  no  one  but  himself 
to  adorn  the  walls  with  his  new  acquisitions,  using  the 
hammer  from  the  top  of  a  step-ladder  in  order  to  save 
the  expense  of  a  professional  picture  hanger.  He  wished 
to  set  his  children  the  example  of  economy.  In  his  idle 
hours,  he  would  change  the  position  of  the  heaviest 
pieces  of  furniture,  trying  every  kind  of  combination. 
This  employment  reminded  him  of  those  happy  days 
when  he  handled  great  sacks  of  wheat  and  bundles  of 
hides  on  the  ranch.  Whenever  his  son  noticed  that  he 
was  looking  thoughtfully  at  a  monumental  sideboard  or 
heavy  piece,  he  prudently  betook  himself  to  other  haunts. 

Desnoyers  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  the  two  house-men, 
very  solemn,  correct  creatures  always  in  dress  suit,  who 
could  not  hide  their  astonishment  at  seeing  a  man  with 
an  income  of  more  than  a  million  francs  engaged  in  such 
work.  Finally  it  was  the  two  coppery  maids  who  aided 
their  Patron,  the  three  working  contentedly  together  like 
companions  in  exile. 

Four  automobiles  completed  the  luxuriousness  of  the 
family.  The  children  would  have  been  more  content  with 
one — small  and  dashing,  in  the  very  latest  style.     But 


90      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Desnoyers  was  not  the  man  to  let  a  bargain  slip  past  him, 
so  one  after  the  other,  he  had  picked  up  the  four,  tempted 
by  the  price.  They  were  as  enormous  and  majestic  as 
coaches  of  state.  Their  entrance  into  a  street  made  the 
passers-by  turn  and  stare.  The  chauffeur  needed  two 
assistants  to  help  him  keep  this  flock  of  mastodons  in 
order,  but  the  proud  owner  thought  only  of  the  skill  with 
which  he  had  gotten  the  best  of  the  salesmen,  anxious 
to  get  such  monuments  out  of  their  sight. 

To  his  children  he  was  always  recommending  simplicity 
and  economy.  "We  are  not  as  rich  as  you  suppose.  We 
own  a  good  deal  of  property,  but  it  produces  a  scanty 
income." 

And  then,  after  refusing  a  domestic  expenditure  of  two 
hundred  francs,  he  would  put  five  thousand  into  an  un- 
necessary purchase  just  because  it  would  mean  a  great 
loss  to  the  seller.  Julio  and  his  sister  kept  protesting  to 
their  mother,  Dona  Luisa — Chichi  even  going  so  far  as  to 
announce  that  she  would  never  marry  a  man  like  her 
father. 

"Hush,  hush  \"  exclaimed  the  scandalized  Creole.  "He 
has  his  little  peculiarities,  but  he  is  very  good.  Never  has 
he  given  me  any  cause  for  complaint.  I  only  hope  that 
you  may  be  lucky  enough  to  find  his  equal." 

Her  husband's  quarrelsomeness,  his  irritable  character 
and  his  masterful  will  all  sank  into  insignificance  when 
she  thought  of  his  unvarying  fidelity.  In  so  many  years 
of  married  life  .  .  .  nothing!  His  faithfulness  had  been 
unexceptional  even  in  the  country  where  many,  sur- 
rounded by  beasts,  and  intent  on  increasing  their  flocks, 
had  seemed  to  become  contaminated  by  the  general  ani- 
malism. She  remembered  her  father  only  too  well !  .  .  . 
Even  her  sister  was  obliged  to  live  in  apparent  calmness 
with  the  vainglorious  Karl,  quite  capable  of  disloyalty 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  91 

not  because  of  any  special  lust,  but  just  to  imitate  the 
doings  of  his  superiors. 

Desnoyers  and  his  wife  were  plodding  through  life  in  a 
routine  affection,  reminding  Dona  Luisa,  in  her  limited 
imagination,  of  the  yokes  of  oxen  on  the  ranch  who  re- 
fused to  budge  whenever  another  animal  was  substituted 
for  the  regular  companion.  Her  husband  certainly  was 
quick  tempered,  holding  her  responsible  for  all  the  whims 
with  which  he  exasperated  his  children,  yet  he  could 
never  bear  to  have  her  out  of  his  sight.  The  afternoons 
at  the  hotel  Drouot  would  be  most  insipid  for  him  unless 
she  was  at  his  side,  the  confidante  of  his  plans  and  wrath- 
ful outbursts. 

"To-day  there  is  to  be  a  sale  of  jewels;  shall  we  go?*' 

He  would  make  this  proposition  in  such  a  gentle  and 
coaxing  voice — the  voice  that  Dofia  Luisa  remembered  in 
their  first  talks  around  the  old  home.  And  so  they  would 
go  together,  but  by  different  routes ; — she  in  one  of  the 
monumental  vehicles  because,  accustomed  to  the  leisurely 
carriage  rides  of  the  ranch  she  no  longer  cared  to  walk; 
and  Desnoyers — although  owner  of  the  four  automobiles, 
heartily  abominating  them  because  he  was  conservative 
and  uneasy  with  the  complications  of  new  machinery — 
on  foot  under  the  pretext  that,  through  lack  of  work,  his 
body  needed  the  exercise.  When  they  met  in  the  crowded 
salesrooms,  they  proceeded  to  examine  the  jewels  to- 
gether, fixing  beforehand  the  price  they  would  offer. 
But  he,  quick  to  become  exasperated  by  opposition, 
always  went  further,  hurling  numbers  at  his  competitors 
as  though  they  were  blows.  After  such  excursions,  the 
seiiora  would  appear  as  majestic  and  dazzling  as  a  basilica 
of  Byzantium — ears  and  neck  decorated  with  great 
pearls,  her  bosom  a  constellation  of  brilliants,  her  hands 
radiating  points  of  light  of  all  colors  of  the  rainbow. 

"Too  much,  mama,"  Chichi  would  protest.    "They  will 


92      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

take  you  for  a  pawnbroker's  lady!"  But  the  Creole, 
satisfied  with  her  splendor,  the  crowning  glory  of  a 
humble  life,  attributed  her  daughter's  faultfinding  to 
envy.  Chichi  was  only  a  girl  now,  but  later  on  she  would 
thank  her  for  having  collected  all  these  gems  for  her. 

Already  the  home  was  unable  to  accommodate  so  many 
purchases.  In  the  cellars  were  piled  up  enough  paint- 
ings, furniture,  statues,  and  draperies  to  equip  several 
other  dwellings.  Don  Marcelo  began  to  complain  of  the 
cramped  space  in  an  apartment  costing  twenty-eight 
thousand  francs  a  year — in  reality  large  enough  for  a 
family  four  times  the  size  of  his.  He  was  beginning  to 
deplore  being  obliged  to  renounce  some  very  tempting 
furniture  bargains  when  a  real  estate  agent  smelled  out 
the  foreigner  and  relieved  him  of  his  embarrassment. 
Why  not  buy  a  castle  ?  .  .  . 

The  entire  family  was  delighted  with  the  idea.  An  his- 
toric castle,  the  most  historic  that  could  be  found,  would 
supplement  their  luxurious  establishment.  Chichi  paled 
with  pride.  Some  of  her  friends  had  castles.  Others,  of 
old  colonial  family,  who  were  accustomed  to  look  down 
upon  her  for  her  country  bringing  up,  would  now  cry 
with  envy  upon  learning  of  this  acquisition  which  was 
almost  a  patent  of  nobility.  The  mother  smiled  in  the 
hope  of  months  in  the  country  which  would  recall  the 
simple  and  happy  life  of  her  youth.  Julio  was  less 
enthusiastic.  The  "old  man"  would  expect  him  to  spend 
much  time  away  from  Paris,  but  he  consoled  himself 
by  reflecting  that  the  suburban  place  would  provide  ex- 
cuse for  frequent  automobile  trips. 

Desnoyers  thought  of  the  relatives  in  Berlin.  Why 
should  he  not  have  his  castle  like  the  others?  .  .  .  The 
bargains  were  alluring.  Historic  mansions  by  the  dozen 
were  offered  him.  Their  owners,  exhausted  by  the  ex- 
pense of  maintaining  them,  were  more  than  anxious  to 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  93 

sell.  So  he  bought  the  castle  of  Villeblanche-sur-Mame, 
built  in  the  time  of  the  religious  wars — a  mixture  of 
palace  and  fortress  with  an  Italian  Renaissance  faqade, 
gloomy  towers  with  pointed  hoods,  and  moats  in  w^ich 
swans  were  swimming. 

He  could  now  live  with  some  tracts  of  land  over  which 
to  exercise  his  authority,  struggling  again  with  the  resist- 
ance of  men  and  things.  Besides,  the  vast  proportions 
of  the  rooms  of  the  castle  were  very  tempting  and  bare 
of  furniture.  This  opportunity  for  placing  the  overflow 
from  his  cellars  plunged  him  again  into  buying.  With 
this  atmosphere  of  lordly  gloom,  the  antiques  would 
harmonize  beautifully,  without  that  cry  of  protest  which 
they  always  seemed  to  make  when  placed  in  contact  with 
the  glaring  white  walls  of  modern  habitations.  The  his- 
toric residence  required  an  endless  outlay ;  on  that 
account  it  had  changed  owners  so  many  times. 

But  he  and  the  land  under stod  each  other  beautifully. 
...  So  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  filling  the  salons,  he 
was  going  to  begin  farming  and  stock-raising  in  the 
extensive  parks — a  reproduction  in  miniature  of  his 
enterprises  in  South  America.  The  property  ought  to  be 
made  self-supporting.  Not  that  he  had  any  fear  of  the 
expenses,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  lose  money  on  the 
proposition. 

The  acquisition  of  the  castle  brought  Desnoyers  a  true 
friendship — the  chief  advantage  in  the  transaction.  He 
became  acquainted  with  a  neighbor,  Senator  Lacour,  who 
twice  had  been  Minister  of  State,  and  was  now  vegetat- 
ing in  the  senate,  silent  during  its  sessions,  but  restless 
and  voluble  in  the  corridors  in  order  to  maintain  his 
influence.  He  was  a  prominent  figure  of  the  republican 
nobility,  an  aristocrat  of  the  new  regime  that  had  sprung 
from  the  agitations  of  the  Revolution,  just  as  the  titled 
nobility  had  won  their  spurs  in  the  Crusades.    His  great- 


94      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

grandfather  had  belonged  to  the  Convention,  His  father 
had  figured  in  the  Republic  of  1848.  He,  as  the  son  of 
an  exile  who  had  died  in  banishment,  had  when  very 
young  marched  behind  the  grandiloquent  figure  of  Gam- 
betta,  and  always  spoke  in  glowing  terms  of  the  Master, 
in  the  hope  that  some  of  his  rays  might  be  reflected  on 
his  disciple.  His  son,  Rene,  a  pupil  of  the  £cole  Cen- 
trale,  regarded  his  father  as  "a.  rare  old  sport,"  laughing 
a  little  at  his  romantic  and  humanitarian  republicanism. 
He,  nevertheless,  was  counting  much  on  that  same  official 
protection  treasured  by  four  generations  of  Lacours, 
dedicated  to  the  service  of  the  Republic,  to  assist  him 
v.hen  he  became  an  engineer. 

Don  Marcelo,  who  used  to  look  uneasily  upon  any  new 
friendship,  fearing  a  demand  for  a  loan,  gave  himself  up 
with  enthusiasm  to  intimacy  with  this  "grand  man."  The 
personage  admired  riches  and  recognized,  besides,  a  cer- 
tain genius  in  this  millionaire  from  the  other  side  of  the 
sea  accustomed  to  speaking  of  limitless  pastures  and 
immense  herds.  Their  intercourse  was  more  than  the 
mere  friendliness  of  a  country  neighborhood,  and  con- 
tinued on  after  their  return  to  Paris.  Finally  Rene 
visited  the  home  on  the  avenida  Victor  Hugo  as  though 
it  were  his  own. 

The  only  disappointments  in  Desnoyers'  new  life  came 
from  his  children.  Chichi  irritated  him  because  of  the 
independence  of  her  tastes.  She  did  not  like  antiques, 
no  matter  how  substantial  and  magnificent  they  might  be, 
much  preferring  the  frivolities  of  the  latest  fashion.  She 
accepted  all  her  father's  gifts  with  great  indifference. 
Before  an  exquisite  blonde  piece  of  lace,  centuries  old, 
picked  up  at  auction,  she  made  a  wry  face,  saying,  "I 
would  much  rather  have  had  a  new  dress  costing  three 
hundred  francs."  She  and  her  brother  were  soldi^v 
opposed  to  everything  old. 


THE  DESXOYERS  FAMILY  95 

Now  that  his  daughter  was  already  a  woman,  he  had 
confided  her  absolutely  to  the  care  of  Dona  Luisa.  But 
the  former  "Peoncito"  was  not  showing  much  respect 
tor  the  advice  and  commands  of  the  good  natured  Creole. 
She  had  taken  up  roller-skating  with  enthusiasm,  regard- 
ing it  as  the  most  elegant  of  diversions.  She  would  go 
every  afternoon  to  the  Ice  Palace,  Dona  Luisa  chaperon- 
ing her,  although  to  do  this  she  was  obliged  to  give  up 
accompanying  her  husband  to  his  sales.  Oh,  the  hours 
of  deadly  weariness  before  that  frozen  oval  ring,  watch- 
ing the  white  circle  of  balancing  human  monkeys  gliding 
by  on  runners  to  the  sound  of  an  organ !  .  .  .  Her  daughter 
would  pass  and  repass  before  her  tired  eyes,  rosy  from 
the  exercise,  spirals  of  hair  escaped  from  her  hat, 
streaming  out  behind,  the  folds  of  her  skirt  swinging 
above  her  skates — handsome,  athletic  and  Amazonian, 
v-ith  the  rude  health  of  a  child  who,  according  to  her 
father,  "had  been  weaned  on  beefsteaks." 

Finally  Doiia  Luisa  rebelled  against  this  troublesome 
vigilance,  preferring  to  accompany  her  husband  on  his 
hunt  for  underpriced  riches.  Chichi  went  to  the  skating 
rink  with  one  of  the  dark-skinned  maids,  passing  the 
afternoons  with  her  sporty  friends  of  the  new  world. 
Together  they  ventilated  th«»<:  ideas  uniji  Ct&  glare  ot 
the  easji"  iife  of  Paris,  iicea  trom  the  scruples  and  con- 
ventions of  their  native  land.  They  all  thought  them- 
selves older  than  they  were,  delighting  to  discover  in 
each  other  unsuspected  charms.  The  change  from  the 
other  hemisphere  had  altered  their  sense  of  values. 
Some  were  even  writing  verses  in  French.  And  Des- 
noyers  became  alarmed,  giving  free  rein  to  his  bad 
humor,  when  Chichi,  of  evenings,  would  bring  forth  as 
aphorisms  that  which  she  and  her  friends  had  been 
discussing,  as  a  siunmary  of  their  readings  and  observa- 
tions.— "Life   is   life,  and   one   must   live!   ...   I   will 


96      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

marry  the  man  I  love,  no  matter  who  he  may  be.  .  .  ." 
But  the  daughter's  independence  was  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  the  worry  which  the  other  child  gave  the  Des- 
noyers.  Ay,  that  other  one !  .  .  .  Julio,  upon  arriving  in 
Paris,  had  changed  the  bent  of  his  aspirations.  He  no 
longer  thought  of  becoming  an  engitieer;  he  wished  to 
become  an  artist.  Don  Marcelo  objected  in  great  con- 
sternation, but  finally  yielded.  Let  it  be  painting!  The 
important  thing  was  to  have  some  regular  profession. 
The  father,  while  he  considered  property  and  wealth  as 
sacred  rights,  felt  that  no  one  should  enjoy  them  who 
had  not  worked  to  acquire  them. 

Recalling  his  apprenticeship  as  a  wood  carver,  he  be- 
gan to  hope  that  the  artistic  instincts  which  poverty  had 
extinguished  in  him  were,  perhaps,  reappearing  in  his 
son.  What  if  this  lazy  boy,  this  lively  genius,  hesitating 
before  taking  up  his  walk  in  life,  should  turn  out  to  be 
a  famous  painter,  after  all!  ...  So  he  agreed  to  all  of 
Julio's  caprices,  the  budding  artist  insisting  that  for  his 
first  efforts  in  drawing  and  coloring  he  needed  a  separate 
apartment  where  he  could  work  with  more  freedom. 
His  father,  therefore,  established  him  near  his  home,  in 
the  rue  de  la  Pompe  in  the  former  studio  of  a  well-known 
foreign  painter.  The  work-room  and  its  annexes  were 
far  too  large  for  an  amateur,  but  the  owner  had  died,  and 
Desnoyers  improved  the  opportunity  offered  by  the  heirs, 
and  bought  at  a  remarkable  bargain  the  entire  plant, 
pictures  and  furnishings. 

Dona  Luisa  at  first  visited  the  studio  daily  like  a  good 
mother,  caring  for  the  well-being  of  her  son  that  he  may 
work  to  better  advantage.  Taking  off  her  gloves,  she 
emptied  the  brass  trays  filled  with  cigar  stubs  and  dusted 
the  furniture  powdered  with  the  ashes  fallen  from  the 
pipes.  Julio's  visitors,  long-haired  young  men  who  spoke 
of  things  that  she  could  not  understand,  seemed  to  her 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  97 

rather  careless  in  their  manners.  .  .  .  Later  on  she  also 
met  there  women,  very  lightly  clad,  and  was  received 
with  scowls  by  her  son.  Wasn't  his  mother  ever  going 
to  let  him  work  in  peace  ?  ...  So  the  poor  lady,  starting 
out  in  the  morning  toward  the  rue  de  la  Pompe,  stopped 
midway  and  went  instead  to  the  church  of  Saint  Honore 
d'Eylau. 

The  father  displayed  more  prudence.  A  man  of  his 
years  could  not  expect  to  mingle  with  the  chums  of  a 
young  artist.  In  a  few  months'  time,  Julio  passed  entire 
weeks  without  going  to  sleep  under  the  paternal  roof. 
Finally  he  installed  himself  permanently  in  his  studio, 
occasionally  making  a  flying  trip  home  that  his  family 
might  know  that  he  was  still  in  existence.  .  .  .  Some 
mornings,  Desnoyers  would  arrive  at  the  rue  de  la  Pompe 
in  order  to  ask  a  few  questions  of  the  concierge.  It  was 
ten  o'clock;  the  artist  was  sleeping.  Upon  returning  at 
midday,  he  learned  that  the  heavy  sleep  still  continued. 
Soon  after  lunch,  another  visit  to  get  better  news.  It 
was  two  o'clock,  the  young  gentleman  was  just  arising. 
So  the  father  would  retire,  muttering  stormily — "But 
when  does  this  painter  ever  paint?"  .  .  . 

At  first  Julio  had  tried  to  win  renown  with  his  brush, 
believing  that  it  would  prove  an  easy  task.  In  true  artist 
fashion,  he  collected  his  friends  around  him.  South 
American  boys  with  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  life,  scat- 
tering money  ostentatiously  so  that  everybody  might 
know  of  their  generosity.  With  serene  audacity,  the 
young  canvas-dauber  undertook  to  paint  portraits.  He 
loved  good  painting,  "distinctive"  painting,  with  the  cloy- 
ing sweetness  of  a  romance,  that  copied  only  the  forms 
of  women.  He  had  money,  a  good  studio,  his  father  was 
standing  behind  him  ready  to  help — why  shouldn't  he 
accomplish  as  much  as  many  others  who  lacked  his 
opportunities?  .  .  . 


^      FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

So  he  began  his  work  by  coloring  a  canvas  entitled, 
"The  Dance  of  the  Hours,"  a  mere  pretext  for  copying 
pretty  girls  and  selecting  buxom  models.  These  he  would 
sketch  at  a  mad  speed,  filling  in  the  outlines  with  biols 
of  multi-colored  paint,  and  up  to  this  point  all  went  well. 
Then  he  would  begin  to  vacillate,  remaining  idle  before 
the  picture  only  to  put  it  in  the  corner  in  hope  of  later 
inspiration.  It  was  the  same  way  with  his  various  studies 
of  feminine  heads.  Finding  that  he  was  never  able  to 
finish  anything,  he  soon  became  designed,  like  one  who 
pants  with  fatigue  before  an  obstacle  waiting  for  a  provi- 
dential interposition  to  save  him.  The  important  thin.g  was 
to  be  a  painter  .  .  .  even  though  he  might  not  paint  any- 
thing. This  afforded  him  the  opportunity,  on  the  plea  of 
lofty  aestheticism,  of  sending  out  cards  of  invitation  and 
asking  light  women  to  his  studio.  He  lived  during  the 
night.  Don  Marcelo,  upon  investigating  the  artist's  work, 
could  not  contain  his  indignation.  Every  morning  the 
two  Desnoyers  were  accustomed  to  greet  the  first  hours 
of  dawn — ^the  father  leaping  from  his  bed,  the  son,  on 
his  way  home  to  his  studio  to  throw  himself  upon  his 
couch  not  to  wake  till  midday- 

The  credulods  Doiia  Luisa  would  invent  the  most 
absurd  explanations  to  defend  her  son.  Who  could  tell  ? 
Perhaps  he  had  the  habit  of  painting  during  the  night, 
utilizing  it  for  original  work.  Men  resort  to  so  many 
devilish  things!  .  .  . 

Desnoyers  knew  very  well  what  these  nocturnal  gusts 
of  genius  were  amounting  to — scandals  in  the  restaurants 
of  Montmartre,  and  scrimmages,  many  scrimmages.  He 
and  his  gang,  who  believed  that  at  seven  a  full  dress  or 
Tuxedo  was  indispensable,  were  like  a  band  of  Indians, 
bringing  to  Paris  the  wild  customs  of  the  plains.  Cham- 
pagne always  made  them  quarrelsome.  So  they  broke 
and  paid,  but  their  generosities  were  almost  invariably 


THE  DESXOYERS  FAMILY  99 

followed  by  a  scuffle.  No  one  could  surpass  Julio  in  the 
quick  slap  and  the  ready  card.  His  father  heard  with  a 
heavy  heart  the  news  brought  him  by  some  friends  think- 
ing to  flatter  his  vanity — his  son  was  always  victorious  in 
these  gentlemanly  encounters ;  he  it  was  who  always 
scratched  the  enemy's  skin.  The  painter  knew  more 
about  fencing  than  art.  He  was  a  champion  with  various 
weapons ;  he  could  box,  and  was  even  skilled  in  the 
favorite  blows  of  the  prize  fighters  of  the  slums.  "Use- 
less as  a  drone,  and  as  dangerous,  too,"  fretted  his  father. 
And  yet  in  the  back  of  his  troubled  mind  fluttered  an 
irresistible  satisfaction — an  animal  pride  in  the  thought 
that  this  hare-brained  terror  was  his  own. 

For  a  while,  he  thought  that  he  had  hit  upon  a  way  of 
withdrawing  his  son  from  such  an  existence.  The  rela- 
tives in  Berlin  had  visited  the  Desnoyers  in  their  castle 
of  \^illeblanche.  With  good-natured  superiority,  Karl 
von  Hartrott  had  appreciated  the  rich  and  rather  absurd 
accumulations  of  his  brother-in-law.  They  were  not  bad ; 
he  admitted  that  they  gave  a  certain  cachet  to  the  home 
in  Paris  and  to  the  castle.  They  smacked  of  the  posses- 
sions of  titled  nobility.  But  Germany !  .  .  .  The  comforts 
and  luxuries  in  his  country!  .  .  ,  He  just  wished  his 
brother-in-law  to  admire  the  way  be  lived  and  the  noble 
friendships  that  embellished  his  opulence.  And  so  he 
insisted  in  his  letters  that  the  Desnoyers  family  should 
return  their  visit.  This  change  of  environment  might 
tone  Julio  down  a  little.  Perhaps  his  ambition  might 
waken  on  seeing  the  diligence  of  his  cousins,  each  with  a 
career.  The  Frenchman  had,  besides,  an  underlying 
belief  in  the  more  corrupt  influence  of  Paris  as  compared 
with  the  purity  of  the  customs  in  Patriarchal  Germany. 

They  were  there  four  months.  In  a  little  while  Des- 
noyers felt  ready  to  retreat.  Each  to  his  own  kind ;  he 
M'ould  never  be  able  to  understand  such  people.    Exceed- 


loo    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ingly  amiable,  with  an  abject  amiability  and  evident 
desire  to  please,  but  constantly  blundering  through  a  tact- 
less desire  to  make  their  grandeur  felt.  The  high-toned 
friends  of  Hartrott  emphasized  their  love  for  France,  but 
it  was  the  pious  love  that  a  weak  and  mischievous  child 
inspires,  needing  protection.  And  they  would  accompany 
their  affability  with  all  manner  of  inopportune  memories 
of  the  wars  in  which  France  had  been  conquered.  Every- 
thing in  Germany — a  monument,  a  railroad  station,  a 
simple  dining-room  device,  instantly  gave  rise  to  glorious 
comparisons.  "In  France,  you  do  not  have  this,"  "Of 
course,  you  never  saw  anything  like  this  in  America." 

Don  Marcelo  came  away  fatigued  by  so  much  con- 
descension, and  his  wife  and  daughter  refused  to  be 
convinced  that  the  elegance  of  Berlin  could  be  superior 
to  Paris.  Chichi,  with  audacious  sacrilege,  scandalized 
her  cousins  by  declaring  that  she  could  not  abide  the 
corseted  officers  with  immovable  monocle,  who  bowed  to 
the  women  with  such  automatic  rigidity,  blending  their 
gallantries  with  an  air  of  superiority. 

Julio,  guided  by  his  cousins,  was  saturated  in  the  vir- 
tuous atmosphere  of  Berlin.  With  the  oldest,  "The  Sage," 
he  had  nothing  to  do.  He  was  a  poor  creature  devoted  to 
his  books  who  patronized  all  the  family  with  a  protecting 
air.  It  was  the  others,  the  sub-lieutenants  or  military  stu- 
dents, who  proudly  showed  him  the  rounds  of  German  joy. 

Julio  was  accordingly  introduced  to  all  the  night  restau- 
rants— imitations  of  those  in  Paris,  but  on  a  much  larger 
scale.  The  women  who  in  Paris  might  be  counted  by  the 
dozens  appeared  here  in  hundreds.  The  scandalous 
drunkenness  here  never  came  by  chance,  but  always  by 
design  as  an  indispensable  part  of  the  gaiety.  All  was 
grandiose,  glittering,  colossal.  The  libertines  diverted 
themselves  in  platoons,  the  public  got  drunk  in  com- 
panies, the  harlots  presented  themselves  in   regiments. 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  lOl 

He  felt  a  sensation  of  disgust  before  these  timid  and 
servile  females,  accustomed  to  blows,  who  were  so  eagerly 
trying  to  reimburse  themselves  for  the  losses  and  expos- 
ures of  their  business.  For  him,  it  was  impossible  to 
celebrate  with  hoarse  ha-has,  like  his  cousins,  the  dis- 
comfiture of  these  women  when  they  realized  that  they 
had  wasted  so  many  hours  without  accomplishing  more 
than  abundant  drinking.  The  gross  obscenity,  so  public 
and  noisy,  like  a  parade  of  riches,  was  loathsome  to  Julio. 
^'There  is  nothing  like  this  in  Paris,"  his  cousins  repeat- 
edly exulted  as  they  admired  the  stupendous  salons,  the 
hundreds  of  men  and  women  in  pairs,  the  thousands  of 
tipplers.  "No,  there  certainly  was  nothing  like  that  in 
Paris."  He  was  sick  of  such  boundless  pretension.  He 
seemed  to  be  attending  a  fiesta  of  hungry  mariners 
anxious  at  one  swoop  to  make  amends  for  all  former 
privations.  Like  his  father,  he  longed  to  get  away.  It 
offended  his  aesthetic  sense. 

Don  Marcelo  returned  from  this  visit  with  melancholy 
resignation.  Those  people  had  undoubtedly  made  great 
strides.  He  was  not  such  a  blind  patriot  that  he 
could  not  admit  what  was  so  evident.  Within  a  few 
years  they  had  transformed  their  country,  and  their 
industry  was  astonishing  .  .  .  but,  well  ...  it  was  simply 
impossible  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  Each  to 
his  own,  but  may  they  never  take  a  notion  to  envy  their 
neighbor!  .  .  .  Then  he  immediately  repelled  this  last 
suspicion  with  the  optimism  of  a  business  man. 

"They  are  going  to  be  very  rich,"  he  thought.  "Their 
aflPairs  are  prospering,  and  he  that  is  rich  does  not  hunt 
quarrels.  That  war  of  which  some  crazy  fools  are 
always  dreaming  would  be  an  impossible  thing." 

Young  Desnoyers  renewed  his  Parisian  existence,  liv- 
ing entirely  in  the  studio  and  going  less  and  less  to  his 
father's  home.     Doiia  Luisa  began  to  speak  of  a  certain 


I02     l^OUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSF 

Argensola,  a  very  learned  young  Spaniard,  believing  that 
his  counsels  might  prove  most  helpful  to  Julio.  She  did 
not  know  exactly  whether  this  new  companion  was 
friend,  master  or  servant.  The  studio  habitues  also  had 
their  doubts.  The  literary  ones  always  spoke  of  Argen- 
sola as  a  painter.  The  painters  recognized  only  his 
ability  as  a  man  of  letters.  He  was  among  those  who 
used  to  come  up  to  the  studio  of  winter  afternoons, 
attracted  by  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  stove  and  the  wines 
secretly  provided  by  the  mother,  holding  forth  authorita- 
tively before  the  often-renewed  bottle  and  the  box  of 
cigars  lying  open  on  the  table.  One  night,  he  slept  on 
the  divan,  as  he  had  no  regular  quarters.  After  that  first 
night,  he  lived  entirely  in  the  studio. 

Julio  soon  discovered  in  him  an  admirable  reflex  of 
his  own  personality.  He  knew  that  Argensola  had  come 
third-class  from  Madrid  with  twenty  francs  in  his  pocket, 
in  order  to  "capture  glory,"  to  use  his  own  words.  Upon 
observing  that  the  Spaniard  was  painting  with  as  much 
difficulty  as  himself,  with  the  same  wooden  and  childish 
strokes,  which  are  so  characteristic  of  the  make-believe 
artists  and  pot-boilers,  the  routine  workers  concerned 
themselves  with  color  and  other  rank  fads.  Argensola 
was  a  psychological  artist,  a  painter  of  souls.  And  his 
disciple  felt  astonished  and  almost  displeased  on  learning 
what  a  comparatively  simple  thing  it  was  to  paint  a  soul. 
Upon  a  bloodless  countenance,  with  a  chin  as  sharp  as  a 
dagger,  the  gifted  Spaniard  would  trace  a  pair  of  nearly 
round  eyes,  and  at  the  centre  of  each  pupil  he  would  aim 
a  white  brush  stroke,  a  point  of  light  .  .  .  the  soul.  Then, 
planting  himself  before  the  canvas,  he  would  proceed  to 
classify  this  soul  with  his  inexhaustible  imagination, 
attributing  to  it  almost  every  kind  of  stress  and  extrem- 
ity. So  great  was  the  sway  of  his  rapture  that  Julio,  too. 
was  able  to  see  all  that  the  artist  flattered  himself  into 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  103 

believing  that  he  had  put  into  the  owlish  eyes.  He,  also, 
would  paint  souls  .  .  .  souls  of  women. 

In  spite  of  the  ease  with  which  he  developed  his 
psychological  creations,  Argensola  preferred  to  talk, 
stretched  on  a  divan,  or  to  read,  hugging  the  fire  while 
his  friend  and  protector  was  outside.  Another  advantage 
this  fondness  for  reading  gave  young  Desnoyers  was 
that  he  was  no  longer  obliged  to  open  a  volume,  scanning 
the  index  and  last  pages  "just  to  get  the  idea."  Formerly 
when  frequenting  society  functions,  he  had  been  guilty 
of  coolly  asking  an  author  which  was  his  best  book — his 
smile  of  a  clever  man — giving  the  writer  to  understand 
that  he  merely  enquired  so  as  not  to  waste  time  on  the 
other  volumes.  Now  it  was  no  longer  necessary  to  do 
this ;  Argensola  would  read  for  him.  As  soon  as  Julio 
would  see  him  absorbed  in  a  book,  he  would  demand  an 
immediate  share :  "Tell  me  the  story."  So  the  "secre- 
tary," not  only  gave  him  the  plots  of  comedies  and  novels, 
but  also  detailed  the  argument  of  Schopenhauer  or  of 
Nietzsche  .  .  .  Dona  Luisa  almost  wept  on  hearing  her 
visitors — with  that  benevolence  which  wealth  always 
inspires — speak  of  her  son  as  "a  rather  gay  young  man, 
but  wonderfully  well  read!" 

In  exchange  for  his  lessons,  Argensola  received  much 
the  same  treatment  as  did  the  Greek  slaves  who  taught 
rhetoric  to  the  young  patricians  of  decadent  Rome.  In 
the  midst  of  a  dissertation,  his  lord  and  friend  would 
interrupt  him  with — "Get  my  dress  suit  ready.  I  am 
invited  out  this  evening." 

At  other  times,  when  the  instructor  was  luxuriating  in 
bodily  comfort,  with  a  book  in  one  hand  near  the  roaring 
stove,  seeing  through  the  windows  the  gray  and  rainy 
afternoon,  his  disciple  would  suddenly  appear  saying, 
"Quick,  get  out!  .  .  .  There's  a  w^oman  coming!" 

And  Argensola,  like  a  dog  who  gets  up  and  shakes 


104    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

himself,  would  disappear  to  continue  his  reading  in  some 
miserable  little  coffee  house  in  the  neighborhood. 

In  his  official  capacity,  this  widely  gifted  man  often 
descended  from  the  peaks  of  intellectuality  to  the  vul- 
garities of  everyday  life.  He  was  the  steward  of  the 
lord  of  the  manor,  the  intermediary  between  the  pocket- 
book  and  those  who  appeared  bill  in  hand.  "Money !"  he 
would  say  laconically  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and 
Desnoyers  would  break  out  into  complaints  and  curses. 
Where  on  earth  was  he  to  get  it,  he  would  like  to  know. 
His  father  was  as  regular  as  a  machine,  and  would  never 
allow  the  slightest  advance  upon  the  following  month. 
He  had  to  submit  to  a  rule  of  misery.  Three  thousand 
francs  a  month ! — what  could  any  decent  person  do  with 
that  ?  .  .  ,  He  was  even  trying  to  cut  that  down,  to  tighten 
the  band,  interfering  in  the  running  of  his  house,  so  that 
Dona  Luisa  could  not  make  presents  to  her  son.  In  vain 
he  had  appealed  to  the  various  usurers  of  Paris,  telling 
them  of  his  property  beyond  the  ocean.  These  gentle- 
men had  the  youth  of  their  own  country  in  the  hollow  of 
their  hand  and  were  not  obliged  to  risk  their  capital  in 
other  lands.  The  same  hard  luck  pursued  him  when, 
with  sudden  demonstrations  of  affection,  he  had  tried  to 
convince  Don  Marcelo  that  three  thousand  francs  a 
month  was  but  a  niggardly  trifle. 

The  millionaire  fairly  snorted  with  indignation.  "Three 
thousand  francs  a  trifle!"  And  the  debts  besides,  that 
he  often  had  to  pay  for  his  son!  .  .  . 

"Why,  when  I  was  your  age,"  ...  he  would  begin  say- 
ing— but  Julio. would  suddenly  bring  the  dialogue  to  a 
close.  He  had  heard  his  father's  story  too  many  times. 
Ah,  the  stingy  old  miser !  What  he  had  been  giving  him 
all  these  months  was  no  more  than  the  interest  on  his 
grandfather's  legacy.  .  .  .  And  by  the  advice  of  Argen- 
sola  he  ventured  to  get  control  of  the  field.     He  was 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  105 

planning  to  hand  over  the  management  of  his  land  to 
Celedonio,  the  old  overseer,  who  was  now  such  a  grandee 
in  his  country'  that  Julio  ironically  called  him  "my  uncle." 

Desnoyers  accepted  this  rebellion  coldly.  "It  appears 
just  to  me.  You  are  now  of  age!"  Then  he  promptly 
reduced  to  extremes  his  oversight  of  his  home,  forbid- 
ding Dona  1-uisa  to  handle  any  money.  Henceforth  he 
regarded  his  son  as  an  adversary,  treating  him  during 
his  lightning  apparitions  at  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo  with 
glacial  courtesy  as  though  he  were  a  stranger. 

For  a  while  a  transitory  opulence  enlivened  the  studio, 
Julio  had  increased  his  expenses,  considering  himself 
rich.  But  the  letters  from  his  uncle  in  America  soon 
dissipated  these  illusions.  At  first  the  remittances  ex- 
ceeded very  slightly  the  monthly  allowance  that  his  father 
had  made  him.  Then  it  began  to  diminish  in  an  alarm- 
ing manner.  According  to  Celedonio,  all  the  calamities 
on  earth  seemed  to  be  falling  upon  his  plantation.  The 
pasture  land  was  yielding  scantily,  sometimes  for  lack  of 
rain,  sometimes  because  of  floods,  and  the  herds  were 
perishing  by  hundreds.  Julio  required  more  income,  and 
the  crafty  half-breed  sent  him  what  he  asked  for,  but 
simply  as  a  loan,  reserving  the  return  until  they  should 
adjust  their  accounts. 

In  spite  of  such  aid,  young  Desnoyers  was  suffering 
great  want.  He  was  gambling  now  in  an  elegant  circle, 
thinking  thus  to  compensate  for  his  periodical  scrimp- 
ings ;  but  this  resort  was  only  making  the  remittances 
from  America  disappear  with  greater  rapidity.  .  .  .  That 
such  a  man  as  he  was  should  be  tormented  so  for  the 
lack  of  a  few  thousand  francs!  What  else  was  a  mil- 
lionaire father  for? 

If  the  creditors  began  threatening,  the  poor  youth  had 
to  bring  the  secretary  into  pisy,  ordering  him  to  see  the 
mother  immediately ;  he  himself  wished  to  avoid  her 


io6    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

tears  and  reproaches.  So  Argensola  would  slip  like  a 
pickpocket  up  the  service  stairway  of  the  great  house  on 
the  avenue  Victor  Hugo.  The  place  in  which  he  trans- 
acted his  ambassadorial  business  was  the  kitchen,  with 
great  danger  that  the  terrible  Desnoyers  might  happen 
in  there,  on  one  of  his  perambulations  as  a  laboring  man, 
and  surprise  the  intruder. 

Doiia  Luisa  would  weep,  touched  by  the  heartrending 
tales  of  the  messenger.  What  could  she  do !  She  was  as 
poor  as  her  maids ;  she  had  jewels,  many  jewels,  but  not 
a  franc.  Then  Argensola  came  to  the  rescue  with  a 
solution  worthy  of  his  experience.  He  would  smooth  the 
way  for  the  good  mother,  leaving  some  of  her  jewels  at 
the  Mont-de-Piete.  He  knew  the  way  to  raise  money  on 
them.  So  the  lady  accepted  his  advice,  giving  him, 
however,  only  jewels  of  medium  value  as  she  suspected 
that  she  might  never  see  them  again.  Later  scruples 
made  her  at  times  refuse  flatly.  Suppose  Don  Marcelo 
should  ever  find  it  out,  what  a  scene !  ,  .  ,  But  the  Span- 
iard deemed  it  unseemly  to  return  empty-handed,  and 
alwa}s  bore  away  a  basket  of  bottles  from  the  well- 
stocked  wine-cellar  of  the  Desnoyers. 

Every  morning  Dofia  Luisa  went  to  Saint-Honore- 
d'Eylau  to  pray  for  her  son.  She  felt  that  this  was  her 
own  church.  It  was  a  hospitable  and  familiar  island  in 
the  unexplored  ocean  of  Paris.  Here  she  could  exchange 
discreet  salutations  with  her  neighbors  from  the  different 
republics  oi  the  new  world.  She  felt  nearer  to  God  and 
the  saints  when  she  could  hear  in  the  vestibule  conversa- 
tions in  her  language. 

It  was,  moreover,  a  sort  of  salon  in  which  took  place 
the  great  events  of  the  South  American  colony.  One  day 
it  was  a  wedding  with  flowers,  orchestra  and  chanting 
■chorals.  With  Chichi  beside  her,  she  greeted  those  shp 
knew,  congratulating  the  bride  and  groom.    Another  diy 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  107 

it  was  the  funeral  of  an  ex-president  of  some  republic^ 
or  some  other  foreign  dignitary  ending  in  Paris  his  tur- 
bulent existence.  Poor  President!  Poor  General!  .  .  ► 
Doiia  Luisa  remembered  the  dead  man.  She  had  seer* 
him  many  times  in  that  church  devoutly  attending  mass 
and  she  was  indignant  at  the  evil  tongues  which,  under 
the  cover  of  a  funeral  oration,  recalled  the  shootings  and 
bank  failures  in  his  country.  Such  a  good  and  religious 
gentleman!  May  God  receive  his  soul  in  glory!  .  .  » 
And  upon  going  out  into  the  square,  she  would  look  with 
tender  eyes  upon  the  young  men  and  women  on  horse- 
back going  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  the  luxurious  auto- 
mobiles, the  morning  radiant  in  the  sunshine,  all  tlie 
primeval  freshness  of  the  early  hours — realizing  what  a 
beautiful  thing  it  is  to  live. 

Her  devout  expression  of  gratitude  for  mere  existence 
usually  included  the  monument  in  the  centre  of  the 
square,  all  bristling  with  wings  as  if  about  to  fly  away 
from  the  ground.  Victor  Hugo !  ...  It  was  enough  for 
her  to  have  heard  this  name  on  the  lips  of  her  son  to- 
make  her  contemplate  the  statue  with  a  family  interest. 
The  only  thing  that  she  knew  about  the  poet  was  that  he 
had  died.  Of  this  she  was  almost  sure,  and  she  imagined 
that  in  life,  he  was  a  great  friend  of  Julio's  because  she 
had  so  often  heard  her  son  repeat  his  name. 

Ay,  her  son!  .  .  .  All  her  thoughts,  her  conjectures,, 
her  desires,  converged  on  him  and  her  strong-willed 
husband.  She  longed  for  the  men  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing and  put  an  end  to  a  struggle  in  which  she  was 
the  principal  victim.  Would  not  God  work  this  miracle  ? 
.  .  .  Like  an  invalid  who  goes  from  one  sanitarium  to 
another  in  pursuit  of  health,  she  gave  up  the  church  oiv 
her  street  to  attend  the  Spanish  chapel  on  the  avenue 
Fiiedland.  Here  she  considered  herself  even  more 
among  her  own. 


io8    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

In  the  midst  of  the  fine  and  elegant  South  American 
ladies  who  looked  as  if  they  had  just  escaped  from  a 
fashion  sheet,  her  eyes  sought  other  women,  not  so  well 
dressed,  fat,  with  theatrical  ermine  and  antique  jewelry. 
When  these  high-bom  dames  met  each  other  in  the  vesti- 
bule, they  spoke  with  heavy  voices  and  expressive  ges- 
tures, emphasizing  their  words  energetically.  The 
daughter  of  the  ranch  ventured  to  salute  them  because 
she  had  subscribed  to  all  their  pet  charities,  and  upon 
seeing  her  greeting  returned,  she  felt  a  satisfaction  which 
made  her  momentarily  forget  her  woes.  They  belonged 
to  those  families  which  her  father  had  so  greatly  admired 
without  knowing  why.  They  came  from  the  "mother 
country,"  and  to  the  good  Chicha  were  all  Excelentisimas 
or  Altisimas,  related  to  kings.  She  did  not  know  whether 
to  give  them  her  hand  or  bend  the  knee,  as  she  had 
vaguely  heard  was  the  custom  at  court.  But  soon  she 
recalled  her  preoccupation  and  went  forward  to  wrestle  in 
prayer  with  God.  Ay,  that  he  would  mercifully  remem- 
ber her!    That  he  would  not  long  forget  her  son!  .  .  . 

It  was  Glory  that  remembered  Julio,  stretching  out  to 
him  her  arms  of  light,  so  that  he  suddenly  awoke  to  find 
himself  surrounded  by  all  the  honors  and  advantages  of 
celebrity.  Fame  cunningly  surprises  mankind  on  the 
most  crooked  and  unexpected  of  roads.  Neither  the 
painting  of  souls  nor  a  fitful  existence  full  of  extrava- 
gant love  affairs  and  complicated  duels  had  brought 
Desnoyers  this  renown.  It  was  Glory  that  put  him  on 
his  feet. 

A  new  pleasure  for  the  delight  of  humanity  had  come 
from  the  other  side  of  the  seas.  People  were  asking  one 
another  in  the  mysterious  tones  of  the  initiated  who  wish 
to  recognize  a  familiar  spirit,  "Do  you  know  how  to 
tango?  .  .  ."    The  tango  had  taken  possession  of  the 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  109 

world.  It  was  the  heroic  hymn  of  a  humanity  that  was 
suddenly  concentrating  its  aspirations  on  the  harmonious 
rhythm  of  the  thigh  joints,  measuring  its  intelligence  by 
the  agility  of  its  feet.  An  incoherent  and  monotonous 
music  of  African  inspiration  was  satisfying  the  artistic 
ideals  of  a  society  that  required  nothing  better.  The 
world  was  dancing  .  .  .  dancing  .  .  .  dancing, 

A  negro  dance  from  Cuba  introduced  into  South 
America  by  mariners  who  shipped  jerked  beef  to  the 
Antilles,  conquered  the  entire  earth  in  a  few  months, 
completely  encircling  it,  bounding  victoriously  from  na- 
tion to  nation  ...  like  the  Marseillaise.  It  was  even 
penetrating  into  the  most  ceremonious  courts,  overturning 
all  traditions  of  conservation  and  etiquette  like  a  song 
of  the  Revolution — the  revolution  of  frivolity.  The  Pope 
even  had  to  become  a  master  of  the  dance,  recommending 
the  "Furlana"  instead  of  the  "Tango,"  since  all  the 
Christian  world,  regardless  of  sects,  was  united  in  the 
common  desire  to  agitate  its  feet  with  the  tireless  frenzy 
of  the  "possessed"  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Julio  Desnoyers,  upon  meeting  this  dance  of  his  child- 
hood in  full  swing  in  Paris,  devoted  himself  to  it  with 
the  confidence  that  an  old  love  inspires.  Who  could  have 
foretold  that  when,  as  a  student,  he  was  frequenting  the 
lowest  dance  halls  in  Buenos  Aires,  watched  by  the 
police,  that  he  was  really  serving  an  apprenticeship  to 
Glory  ?  . .  . 

From  five  to  seven,  in  the  salons  of  the  Champs 
d'Elysees  where  it  cost  five  francs  for  a  cup  of  tea  and 
the  privilege  of  joining  in  the  sacred  dance,  hundreds  of 
eyes  followed  him  with  admiration.  "He  has  the  key," 
said  the  women,  appraising  his  slender  elegance,  medium 
stature,  and  muscular  springs.  And  he,  in  abbreviated 
jacket  and  expansive  shirt  bosom,  with  his  small,  girlish 
feet  encased  in  high-heeled  patent  leathers  with  white 


no  FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

tops,  danced  gravely,  thoughtfully,  silently,  like  a  mathe- 
matician working  out  a  problem,  under  the  lights  that 
shed  bluish  tones  upon  his  plastered,  glossy  locks. 
Ladies  asked  to  be  presented  to  him  in  the  sweet  hope 
that  their  friends  might  envy  them  when  they  beheld 
them  in  the  arms  of  the  master.  Invitations  simply 
rained  upon  Julio.  The  most  exclusive  salons  were 
thrown  open  to  him  so  that  every  afternoon  he  made  a 
dozen  new  acquaintances.  The  fashion  had  brought  over 
professors  from  the  other  side  of  the  sea,  compatriots 
from  the  slums  of  Buenos  Aires,  haughty  and  confused 
at  being  applauded  like  famous  lecturers  or  tenors;  but 
Julio  triumphed  over  these  vulgarians  who  danced  for 
money,  and  the  incidents  of  his  former  life  were  con- 
sidered by  the  women  as  deeds  of  romantic  gallantry. 

"You  are  killing  yourself,"  Argensola  would  say. 
■"You  are  dancing  too  much." 

The  glory  of  his  friend  and  master  was  only  making 
more  trouble  for  him.  His  placid  readings  before  the 
fire  were  now  subject  to  daily  interruptions.  It  was 
impossible  to  read  more  than  a  chapter.  The  celebrated 
man  was  continually  ordering  him  to  betake  himself  to 
the  street.  "A  new  lesson,"  sighed  the  parasite.  And 
when  he  was  alone  in  the  studio  numerous  callers — all 
women,  some  inquisitive  and  aggressive,  others  sad,  witli 
a  deserted  air — were  constantly  interrupting  his  thought- 
ful pursuits. 

One  of  them  terrified  the  occupants  of  the  studio  with 
her  insistence.  She  was  a  North  American  of  uncertain 
age,  somewhere  between  thirty-two  and  fifty-nine,  with 
short  skirts  that  whenever  she  sat  down  seemed  to  fly  up 
as  if  moved  by  a  spring.  Various  dances  with  Desnoyers 
and  a  visit  to  the  rue  le  la  Pompe  she  seemed  to  consider 
as  her  sacred  rights,  and  she  pursued  the  master  with  the 
desperation  of  an  abandoned  zealot.  Julio  had  made  good 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  in 

his  escape  upon  learning  that  this  beauty  of  youthful 
elegance — when  seen  from  the  back — had  two  grandchil- 
dren. "Master  Desnoyers  has  gone  out,"  Argensola 
would  invariably  say  upon  receiving  her.  And,  thereupon 
she  would  burst  into  tears  and  threats,  longing  to  kill 
herself  then  and  there  that  her  corpse  might  frighten 
away  those  other  women  who  would  come  to  rob  her  of 
what  she  considered  her  special  privilege.  Now  it  was 
Argensola  who  sped  his  companion  to  the  street  when 
he  wished  to  be  alone.  He  had  only  to  remark  casually, 
"I  believe  that  Yankee  is  coming,"  and  the  great  man 
would  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  oftentimes  in  his  desperate 
flight  availing  himself  of  the  back  stairs. 

At  this  time  began  to  develop  the  most  important  event 
in  Julio's  existence.  The  Desnoyers  family  was  to  be 
united  with  that  of  Senator  Lacour.  Rene,  his  only  son, 
had  succeeded  in  awakening  in  Chichi  a  certain  interest 
that  was  almost  love.  The  dignitarj-  enjoyed  thinking  of 
his  son  allied  to  the  boundless  plains  and  immense  herds 
whose  description  always  affected  him  like  a  marvellous 
<^^le  He  was  a  widower,  but  hr*  enjoyed  g^iving  at  his 
home  famous  banquets  and  parties.  Every  new  celebrity 
immediately  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  giving  a  dinner. 
No  illustrious  person  passing  through  Paris,  polar  ex- 
plorer or  famous  singer,  could  escape  being  exhibited 
in  the  dining  room  of  Lacour.  The  son  of  Desnoyers — 
at  whom  he  had  scarcely  glanced  before — now  inspired 
him  with  sudden  interest.  The  senator  was  a  thoroughly 
up-to-date  man  who  did  not  classify  glory  nor  distinguish 
reputations.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  a  name  should 
be  on  everybody's  lips  for  him  to  accept  it  with 
enthusiasm.  When  Julio  responded  to  his  invitation,  he 
presented  him  with  pride  to  his  friends,  and  came  very 
near  to  calling  him  "dear  master."  The  tango  was 
monopolizing  ail   conversation  nowadays.     Even  in  the 


112    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Academy  they  were  taking  it  up  in  order  to  demonstrate 
that  the  youth  of  ancient  Athens  had  diverted  itself  in  a 
somewhat  similar  way.  .  .  .  And  Lacour  had  dreamed  all 
his  life  of  an  Athenian  republic. 

At  these  reunions,  Desnoyers  became  acquainted  with 
the  Lauriers.  He  was  an  engineer  who  owned  a  motor- 
factory  for  automobiles  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris — a  man 
about  thirty-five,  tall,  rather  heavy  and  silent,  with  a 
deliberate  air  as  though  he  wished  to  see  deeply  into  men 
and  things.  She  was  of  a  light,  frivolous  character, 
loving  life  for  the  satisfactions  and  pleasures  which  it 
brought  her,  appearing  to  accept  with  smiling  conformity 
the  silent  and  grave  adoration  of  her  husband.  She  could 
not  well  do  less  with  a  man  of  his  merits.  Besides,  she 
had  brought  to  the  marriage  a  dowry  of  three  hundred 
thousand  francs,  a  capital  which  had  enabled  the  engineer 
to  enlarge  his  business.  The  senator  had  been  instru- 
mental in  arranging  this  marriage.  He  was  interested  in 
Laurier  because  he  was  the  son  of  an  old  friend. 

Upon  Marguerite  Laurier  the  presence  of  Julio  flashed 
like  a  ray  of  sunlight  in  the  tiresome  salon  of  Lacour. 
She  was  dancing  the  fad  of  the  hour  and  frequenting  the 
tango  teas  where  reigned  the  adored  Desnoyers.  And  to 
think  that  she  was  being  entertained  with  this  celebrated 
and  interesting  man  that  the  other  women  were  raving 
about !  .  .  .  In  order  that  he  might  not  take  her  for  a 
mere  middle-class  woman  like  dfce  other  guests  at  the 
senator's  party,  she  spoke  of  her  modistes,  all  from  the 
rue  de  la  Paix,  declaring  gravely  that  no  woman  who 
had  any  self-respect  could  possibly  walk  through  the 
streets  wearing  a  gown  costing  less  than  eight  hundred 
francs,  and  that  the  hat  of  a  thousand  francs — but  a  few 
years  ago,  an  astonishing  novelty — was  nowadays  a  very 
ordinary  affair. 

This  acquaintanceship  made  the  "little  Laurier,"  as 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  113 

her  friends  called  her  notwithstanding  her  tallness,  much 
sought  by  the  master  of  the  dance,  in  spite  of  the  looks 
of  wrath  and  envy  hurled  at  her  by  the  others.  What  a 
triumph  for  the  wife  of  a  simple  engineer  who  was  used 
to  going  everywhere  in  her  mother's  automobile!  .  .  . 
Julio  at  first  had  supposed  her  like  all  the  others  who 
wTre  languishing  in  his  arms,  following  the  rhythmic 
complications  of  the  dance,  but  he  soon  found  that  she 
was  very  different.  Her  coquetry  after  the  first  confix 
dential  words,  but  increased  his  admiration.  He  really 
had  never  before  been  thrown  with  a  woman  of  her 
class.  Those  of  his  first  social  period  were  the  habitues 
of  the  night  restaurants  paid  for  their  witchery.  Now 
Glory  was  tossing  into  his  arms  ladies  of  high  position 
but  with  an  unconfessable  past,  anxious  for  novelties 
although  exceedingly  mature.  This  middle  class  woman, 
who  would  advance  so  confidently  toward  him  and  then 
retreat  with  such  capricious  outbursts  of  modesty,  was  a 
new  type  for  him. 

The  tango  salons  soon  began  to  suffer  a  great  loss. 
Desnoyers  was  permitting  himself  to  be  seen  there  with 
less  frequency,  handing  Glory  over  to  the  professionals. 
Sometimes  entire  weeks  slipped  by  without  the  five-to- 
seven  devotees  being  able  to  admire  his  black  locks  and 
his  tiny  patent  leathers  twinkling  under  the  lights  in  time 
with  his  graceful  movements. 

Marguerite  was  also  avoiding  these  places.  The  meet- 
ings of  the  two  were  taking  place  in  accordance  with 
what  she  had  read  in  the  love  stories  of  Paris.  She  was 
going  in  search  of  Julio,  fearing  to  be  recognized,  tremu- 
lous with  emotion,  selecting  her  most  inconspicuous  suit, 
and  covering  her  face  with  a  close  veil — "the  veil  of 
adultery,"  as  her  friends  called  it.  They  had  their  trysts 
in  the  least- frequented  squares  of  the  district,  frequently 
changing  the  places,  like  timid  birds  that  at  the  slightest 


U4    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

disturbance  fly  to  perch  a  little  further  away.  Sometimes 
they  would  meet  in  the  Buttes  Chaumont,  at  others  they 
preferred  the  gardens  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  the 
Luxembourg,  and  even  the  distant  Pare  de  Montsouris. 
She  was  always  in  tremors  of  terror  lest  her  husband 
might  surprise  them,  although  she  well  knew  that  the 
industrious  engineer  was  in  his  factory  a  great  distance 
away.  Her  agitated  aspect,  her  excessive  precautions  in 
order  to  slip  by  unseen,  only  served  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  passers-by.  Although  Julio  was  waxing 
impatient  with  the  annoyance  of  this  wandering  love 
affair  which  only  amounted  to  a  few  fugitive  kisses,  he 
finally  held  his  peace,  dominated  by  Marguerite's  plead- 
ings. 

She  did  not  wish  merely  to  be  one  in  the  procession  of 
his  sweethearts;  it  was  necessary  to  convince  herself  first 
that  this  love  was  going  to  last  forever.  It  was  her  first 
slip  and  she  wanted  it  to  be  the  last.  Ay,  her  former 
spotless  reputation !  .  .  .  What  would  people  say !  .  .  .  The 
two  returned  to  their  adolescent  period,  loving  each  other 
as  they  had  never  loved  before,  with  the  confident  and 
childish  passion  of  fifteen-year-olds. 

Julio  had  leaped  from  childhood  to  libertinism,  taking 
his  initiation  into  life  at  a  single  bound.  She  had  desired 
marriage  in  order  to  acquire  the  respect  and  liberty  of  a 
married  woman,  but  feeling  towards  her  husband  only  a 
vague  gratitude.  "We  end  where  others  begin,"  she  had 
said  to  Desnoyers. 

Their  passion  took  the  form  of  an  intense,  reciprocal 
and  vulgar  love.  They  felt  a  romantic  sentimentality  iii 
clasping  hands  or  exchanging  kisses  on  a  garden  bench 
in  the  twilight.  He  was  treasuring  a  ringlet  of  Mar- 
guerite's— although  he  doubted  its  genuineness,  with  a 
vague  suspicion  that  it  might  be  one  of  the  latest  wisps 
of  fashien.     She  would  cuddle  down  with  her  head  on 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  115 

his  shoulder,  as  though  imploring  his  protection,  although 
always  in  the  open  air.  If  Julio  ever  attempted  greater 
intimacy  in  a  carriage,  madame  would  repel  him  most 
vigorously.  A  contradictory  duality  appeared  to  inspire 
her  actions.  Every  morning,  on  awaking,  she  would 
decide  to  yield,  but  then  when  near  him,  her  middle-class 
respectability,  jealous  of  its  reputation,  kept  her  faithful 
to  her  mother's  teachings. 

One  day  she  agreed  to  visit  his  studio  with  the  interest 
that  the  haunts  of  the  loved  one  always  inspires.  "Prom- 
ise that  you  will  not  take  advantage  of  me."  He  readily 
promised,  swearing  that  everything  should  be  as  Mar- 
guerite wished.  .  .  .  But  from  that  day  they  were  no 
longer  seen  in  the  gardens,  nor  wandering  around  perse- 
cuted by  the  winter  winds.  They  preferred  the  studio, 
and  Argensola  had  to  rearrange  his  existence,  seeking 
the  stove  of  another  artist  friend,  in  order  to  continue 
his  reading. 

This  state  of  things  lasted  two  months.  They  never 
knew  what  secret  force  suddenly  disturbed  their  tran- 
quility. Perhaps  one  of  her  friends,  guessing  at  the 
truth,  had  told  the  husband  anonymously.  Perhaps  it 
was  she  herself  unconsciously,  with  her  inexpressible 
happiness,  her  tardy  returns  home  when  dinner  was 
already  served,  and  the  sudden  aversion  which  she 
showed  toward  the  engineer  in  their  hours  alone,  trying 
to  keep  her  heart  faithful  to  her  lover.  To  divide  her 
interest  between  her  legal  companion  and  the  man  she 
loved  was  a  torment  that  her  simple  and  vehement 
enthusiasm  could  not  tolerate. 

While  she  was  hurrying  one  night  through  the  rue  de 
la  Pompe,  looking  at  her  watch  and  trembling  with 
impatience  at  not  finding  an  automobile  or  even  a  cab,  a 
man  stood  in  front  of  her.  .  .  .  Etienne  Laurier !  She 
always  shuddered  with  fear  on  recalling  that  hour.    For 


ii6    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

a  moment  she  believed  that  he  was  going  to  kill  her. 
Serious  men,  quiet  and  diffident,  are  most  terrible  in 
their  explosions  of  wrath.  Her  husband  knew  every- 
thing. With  the  same  patience  that  he  employed  in  solv- 
ing his  industrial  problems,  he  had  been  studying  her  day 
by  day,  without  her  ever  suspecting  the  watchfulness 
behind  that  impassive  countenance.  Then  he  had  fol- 
lowed her  in  order  to  complete  the  evidence  of  his 
misfortune. 

Marguerite  had  never  supposed  that  he  could  be  so 
common  and  noisy  in  his  anger.  She  had  expected  that 
he  would  accept  the  facts  coldly  with  that  slight  tinge  of 
philosophical  irony  usually  shown  by  distinguished  men, 
as  the  husbands  of  her  friends  had  done.  But  the  poor 
engineer  who,  outside  of  his  work,  saw  only  his  wife, 
loving  her  as  a  woman,  and  adoring  her  as  a  dainty  and 
superior  being,  a  model  of  grace  and  elegance,  could  not 
endure  the  thought  of  her  downfall,  and  cried  and 
threatened  without  reserve,  so  that  the  scandal  became 
known  throughout  their  entire  circle  of  friends.  The 
senator  felt  greatly  annoyed  in  remembering  that  it  was 
in  his  exclusive  home  that  the  guilty  ones  had  become 
acquainted;  but  his  displeasure  was  visited  upon  the 
husband.  What  lack  of  good  taste !  .  .  .  Women  will  be 
women,  and  everything  is  capable  of  adjustment.  But 
before  the  imprudent  outbursts  of  this  frantic  devil  no 
elegant  solution  was  possible,  and  there  was  now  nothing 
to  do  but  to  begin  divorce  proceedings. 

Desnoyers,  senior,  was  very  indignant  upon  learning 
of  this  last  escapade  of  his  son.  He  had  always  had  a 
great  liking  for  Laurier.  That  instinctive  bond  which 
exists  between  men  of  industry,  patient  and  silent,  had 
made  them  very  congenial.  At  the  senator's  receptions 
he  had  always  talked  with  the  engineer  about  the  progress 
of  his  business,  interesting  himself  in  the  development 


THE  DESNOYERS  FAMILY  117 

of  that  factory  of  which  he  always  spoke  with  the  affec- 
tion of  a  father.  The  millionaire,  in  spite  of  his  reputa- 
tion for  miserliness,  had  even  volunteered  his  disinter- 
ested support  if  at  any  time  it  should  become  necessary 
to  enlarge  the  plant.  And  it  was  this  good  man's  happi- 
ness that  his  son,  a  frivolous  and  useless  dancer,  was 
going  to  steal !  .  .  . 

At  first  Laurier  spoke  of  a  duel.  His  wrath  was  that 
of  a  work  horse  who  breaks  the  tight  reins  of  his  labor- 
ing outfit,  tosses  his  mane,  neighs  wildly  and  bites.  The 
father  was  greatly  distressed  at  the  possibility  of  such  an 
outcome.  .  .  .  One  scandal  more!  Julio  had  dedicated 
the  greater  part  of  his  existence  to  the  handling  of  arms. 

"He  win  kill  the  poor  man !"  he  said  to  the  senator.  "I 
am  sure  that  he  will  kill  him.  It  is  the  logic  of  life ;  the 
good-for-nothing  always  kill  those  who  amount  to  any- 
thing." 

But  there  was  no  killing.  The  Father  of  the  Republic 
knew  how  to  handle  the  clashing  parties,  with  the  same 
skill  that  he  always  employed  in  the  corridors  of  the 
Senate  during  a  ministerial  crisis.  The  scandal  was 
hushed  up.  Marguerite  went  to  live  with  her  mother 
and  took  the  first  steps  for  a  divorce. 

Some  evenings,  when  the  studio  clock  was  striking 
seven,  she  would  yawn  and  say  sadly:  "I  must  go.  .  .  . 
I  have  to  go,*  although  this  is  my  true  home.  .  .  .  Ah, 
what  a  pity  that  we  are  not  married!" 

And  he,  feeling  a  whole  garden  of  bourgeois  virtues, 
hitherto  ignored,  bursting  into  bloom,  repeated  in  a  tone 
of  conviction : 

"That's  so ;  why  are  we  not  married !" 

Their  wishes  could  be  realized.  The  husband  was 
facilitating  the  step  by  his  unexpected  intervention.  So 
young  Desnoyers  set  forth  for  South  America  in  order 
to  raise  the  money  and  marry  Marguerite. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  COUSIN   FROM   BERLIN 


The  studio  of  Julio  Desnoyers  was  on  the  top  floor, 
both  the  stairway  and  the  elevator  stopping  before  his 
door.  The  two  tiny  apartments  at  the  back  were  lighted 
by  an  interior  court,  their  only  means  of  communication 
being  the  service  stairway  which  went  on  up  to  the 
garrets. 

While  his  comrade  was  away,  Argensola  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  those  in  the  neighboring  lodgings.  The 
largest  of  the  apartments  was  empty  during  the  day,  its 
occupants  not  returning  till  after  they  had  taken  their 
evening  meal  in  a  restaurant.  As  both  husband  and  wife 
were  employed  outside,  they  could  not  remain  at  home 
except  on  holidays.  The  man,  vigorous  and  of  a  martial 
aspect,  was  superintendent  in  a  big  department  store.  .  .  . 
He  had  been  a  soldier  in  Africa,  wore  a  military  decora- 
tion, and  had  the  rank  of  sub-lieutenant  in  the  Reserves. 
She  was  a  blonde,  heavy  and  rather  anaemic,  with  bright 
eyes  and  a  sentimental  expression.  On  holidays  she  spent 
long  hours  at  the  piano,  playing  musical  reveries,  always 
the  same.  At  other  times  Argensola  saw  her  through 
the  interior  window  working  in  the  kitchen  aided  by  her 
companion,  the  two  laughing  over  their  clumsiness  and 
inexperience  in  preparing  the  Sunday  dinner. 

The  concierge  thought  that  this  woman  was  a  German, 
but  she  herself  said  that  she  was  Swiss.  She  was  a 
cashier  in  a  shop — not  the  one  in  which  her  husband  was 

ii8 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  119 

employed.  In  the  mornings  they  left  home  together, 
separating  in  the  Place  d'Etoile.  At  seven  in  the  evening 
they  met  here,  greeting  each  other  with  a  kiss,  like  lovers 
who  meet  for  the  first  time ;  and  then  after  supper,  they 
returned  to  their  nest  in  the  rue  de  la  Pompe.  All  Argen- 
sola's  attempts  at  friendliness  with  these  neighbors  were 
repulsed  because  of  their  self-centredness.  They  re- 
sponded with  freezing  courtesy;  they  lived  only  for 
themselves. 

The  other  apartment  of  two  rooms  was  occupied  by  a 
single  man.  He  was  a  Russian  or  Pole  who  almost  always 
returned  with  a  package  of  books,  and  passed  many  hours 
writing  near  the  patio  window.  From  the  very  first  the 
Spaniard  took  him  to  be  a  mysterious  man,  probably  a 
very  distinguished  one — a  true  hero  of  a  novel.  The 
foreign  appearance  of  this  Tchernoff  made  a  great  im- 
pression upon  him — his  dishevelled  beard,  and  oily  locks, 
his  spectacles  upon  a  large  nose  that  seemed  deformed  by 
a  dagger-thrust.  There  emanated  from  him,  like  an  in- 
visible nimbus,  an  odor  of  cheap  wine  and  soiled  clothing. 

When  Argensola  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  through  the 
service  door  he  would  say  to  himself,  "Ah,  Friend  Tcher- 
noff is  returning,"  and  thereupon  he  would  saunter  out 
to  the  stairway  in  order  to  have  a  chat  with  his  neighbor. 
For  a  long  time  the  stranger  discouraged  all  approach  to 
his  quarters,  which  fact  led  the  Spaniard  to  infer  that  he 
devoted  himself  to  alchemy  and  kindred  mysteries.  When 
he  finally  was  allowed  to  enter  he  saw  only  books,  many 
books,  books  everywhere — scattered  on  the  floor,  heaped 
upon  benches,  piled  in  corners,  overflowing  on  to  broken- 
down  chairs,  old  tables,  and  a  bed  that  was  only  made  up 
now  and  then  when  the  owner,  alarmed  by  the  increasing 
invasion  of  dust  and  cobwebs,  was  obliged  to  call  in  the 
aid  of  his  friend,  the  concierge. 

Argensola  finally  realized,  not  without  a  certain  disen- 


120    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

chantment,  that  there  was  nothing  mysterious  in  the  Hfe 
of  the  man.  What  he  was  writing  near  the  window 
were  merely  translations,  some  of  them  ordered,  others 
volunteer  work  for  the  socialist  periodicals.  The  only 
marvellous  thing  about  him  was  the  quantity  of  languages 
that  he  knew. 

"He  knows  them  all,"  said  the  Spaniard,  when  describ- 
ing their  neighbor  to  Desnoyers.  "He  has  only  to  hear 
of  a  new  one  to  master  it.  He  holds  the  key,  the  secret 
of  all  languages,  living  or  dead.  He  speaks  Castilian 
ks  well  as  we  do,  and  yet  he  has  never  been  in  a  Spanish- 
speaking  country." 

Argensola  again  felt  a  thrill  of  mystery  upon  reading 
the  titles  of  many  of  the  volumes.  The  majority  were 
old  books,  many  of  them  in  languages  that  he  was  not 
able  to  decipher,  picked  up  for  a  song  at  second-hand 
shops  or  on  the  book  stands  installed  upon  the  parapets 
of  the  Seine.  Only  a  man  holding  the  key  of  tongues 
could  get  together  such  volumes.  An  atmosphere  of 
mysticism,  of  superhuman  insight,  of  secrets  intact  for 
many  centuries  appeared  to  emanate  from  these  heaps 
of  dusty  volumes  with  worm-eaten  leaves.  And  mixed 
with  these  ancient  tomes  were  others  red  and  con- 
spicuous, pamphlets  of  socialistic  propaganda,  leaflets  in 
all  the  languages  of  Europe  and  periodicals — many  peri- 
odicals, with  revolutionary  titles. 

Tchernoff  did  not  appear  to  enjoy  visits  and  conversa- 
tion. He  would  smile  enigmatically  into  his  black  beard, 
and  was  very  sparing  with  his  words  so  as  to  shorten  the 
interview.  But  Argensola  possessed  the  means  of  win- 
ning over  this  sullen  personage.  It  was  only  necessary 
for  him  to  wink  one  eye  with  the  expressive  invitation, 
"Do  we  go?"  and  the  two  would  soon  be  settled  on  a 
bench  in  the  kitchen  of  Desnoyers'  studio,  opposite  a 
bettle  which  had  come  from  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo. 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  121 

The  costly  wines  of  Don  Marcelo  made  the  Russian 
more  communicative,  although,  in  spite  of  this  aid,  the 
Spaniard  learned  little  of  his  neighbor's  real  existence. 
Sometimes  he  would  mention  Jaures  and  other  socialistic 
orators.  His  surest  means  of  existence  was  the  trans- 
lation of  periodicals  or  party  papers.  On  various  occa- 
sions the  name  of  Siberia  escaped  from  his  lips,  and  he 
admitted  that  he  had  been  there  a  long  time ;  but  he  did 
not  care  to  talk  about  a  country  visited  against  his  will. 
He  would  merely  smile  modestly,  showing  plainly  that 
he  did  not  wish  to  make  any  further  revelations. 

The  morning  after  the  return  of  Julio  Desnoyers,  while 
Argensola  was  talking  on  the  stairway  with  Tchernoff, 
the  bell  rang.  How  annoying!  The  Russian,  who  was 
well  up  in  advanced  politics,  was  just  explaining  the  plans 
advanced  by  Jaures.  There  were  still  many  who  hoped 
that  war  might  be  averted.  He  had  his  motives  for 
doubting  it.  .  .  .  He,  Tchernoff,  was  commenting  on 
these  illusions  with  the  smile  of  a  flat-nosed  sphinx  when 
the  bell  rang  for  a  second  time,  so  that  Argensola  was 
obliged  to  break  away  from  his  interesting  friend,  and 
run  to  open  the  main  door. 

A  gentleman  wished  to  see  Julio.  He  spoke  very  cor- 
rect French,  though  his  accent  was  a  revelation  for 
Argensola.  Upon  going  into  the  bedroom  in  search  of 
his  master,  who  was  just  arising,  he  said  confidently, 
"It's  the  cousin  from  Berlin  who  has  come  to  say  good- 
bye.    It  could  not  be  anyone  else." 

When  the  three  came  together  in  the  studio,  Desnoyers 
presented  his  comrade,  in  order  that  the  visitor  might  not 
make  any  mistake  in  regard  to  his  social  status. 

"I  have  heard  him  spoken  of.  The  gentleman  is  Ar- 
gensola, a  very  deserving  youth." 

Doctor  Julius  von  Hartrott  said  this  with  the  self- 
sufficiency  of  a  man  who  knows  everything  and  wishes  u 


122    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

be  agreeable  to  an  inferior,  conceding  him  the  alms  of 
his  attention. 

The  two  cousins  confronted  each  other  with  a  curiosity 
not  altogether  free  from  distrust.  Although  closely  re- 
lated, they  knew  each  other  very  slightly,  tacitly  admit- 
ting complete  divergence  in  opinions  and  tastes. 

After  slowly  examining  the  Sage,  Argensola  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  looked  like  an  officer  dressed  as  a 
civilian.  He  noticed  in  his  person  an  effort  to  imitate  the 
soldierly  when  occasionally  discarding  uniform — the  am- 
bition of  every  German  burgher  wishing  to  be  taken  for 
the  superior  class.  His  trousers  were  narrow,  as  though 
intended  to  be  tucked  into  cavalry  boots.  His  coat  with 
two  rows  of  buttons  had  the  contracted  waist  with  very 
full  skirt  and  upstanding  lapels,  suggesting  vaguely  a 
military  great  coat.  The  reddish  moustachios,  strong 
jaw  and  shaved  head  completed  his  would-be  martial 
appearance;  but  his  eyes,  large,  dark-circled  and  near- 
sighted, were  the  eyes  of  a  student  taking  refuge  behind 
great  thick  glasses  which  gave  him  the  aspect  of  a  man  of 
peace. 

Desnoyers  knew  that  he  was  an  assistant  professor  of 
the  University,  that  he  had  published  a  few  volumes,  fat 
and  heavy  as  bricks,  and  that  he  was  a  member  of  an 
academic  society  collaborating  in  documentary  research 
directed  by  a  famous  historian.  In  his  lapel  he  was  wear- 
ing the  badge  of  a  foreign  order. 

Julio's  respect  for  the  learned  member  of  the  family 
was  not  unmixed  with  contempt.  He  and  his  sister  Chichi 
had  from  childhood  felt  an  instinctive  hostility  toward  the 
cousins  from  Berlin.  It  annoyed  him,  too,  to  have  his 
family  everlastingly  holding  up  as  a  model  this  pedant 
who  only  knew  life  as  it  is  in  books,  and  passed  his  exist- 
ence investigating  what  men  had  done  in  other  epochs,  in 
order  to  draw  conclusions  in  harmony  with  Germany'^ 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  I2s 

views.  While  young  Desnoyers  had  great  facility  for 
admiration,  and  reverenced  all  those  whose  "arguments" 
Argensola  had  doled  out  to  him,  he  drew  the  line  at  ac- 
cepting the  intellectual  grandeur  of  this  illustrious  rela- 
tive. 

During  his  stay  in  Berlin,  a  German  word  of  vulgar 
invention  had  enabled  him  to  classify  this  prig.  Heavy 
books  of  minute  investigation  were  every  month  being 
published  by  the  dozens  in  the  Fatherland.  There  was 
not  a  professor  who  could  resist  the  temptation  of  con- 
structing from  the  simplest  detail  an  enormous  volume 
written  in  a  dull,  involved  style.  The  people,  therefore, 
appreciating  that  these  near-sighted  authors  were  in- 
capable of  any  genial  vision  of  comradeship,  called  them 
Sitzileisch  haben,  because  of  the  very  long  sittings  which 
their  works  represented.  That  was  what  this  cousin  was 
for  him,  a  mere  Sitzileisch  haben. 

Doctor  von  Hartrott,  on  explaining  his  visit,  spoke  in 
Spanish.  He  availed  himself  of  this  language  used  by 
the  family  during  his  childhood,  as  a  precaution,  looking 
around  repeatedly  as  if  he  feared  to  be  heard.  He  had 
come  to  bid  his  cousin  farewell.  His  mother  had  told  him 
of  his  return,  and  he  had  not  wished  to  leave  Paris  with- 
out seeing  him.  He  was  leaving  in  a  few  hours,  since 
matters  were  growing  more  strained. 

"But  do  you  really  believe  that  there  will  be  war?" 
asked  Desnoyers. 

"War  will  be  declared  to-morrow  or  the  day  after. 
Nothing  can  prevent  it  now.  It  is  necessary  for  the  wel- 
fare of  humanity." 

Silence  followed  this  speech,  Julio  and  Argensola  look- 
ing with  astonishment  at  this  peaceable-looking  man 
who  had  just  spoken  with  such  martial  arrogance.  The 
two  suspected  that  the  professor  was  making  this  visit 
in  order  to  give  vent  to  his  opinions  and  enthusiasms.    At 


124    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  same  time,  perhaps,  he  was  trying  to  find  out  what 
they  might  think  and  know,  as  one  of  the  many  view- 
points of  the  people  in  Paris. 

"You  are  not  French,"  he  added  looking  at  his  cousin. 
"You  were  born  in  Argentina,  so  before  you  I  may  speak 
the  truth." 

"And  were  you  not  born  there?"  asked  Julio  smiling. 

The  Doctor  made  a  gesture  of  protest,  as  though  he 
had  just  heard  something  insulting.  "No,  I  am  a  German. 
No  matter  where  a  German  may  be  born,  he  always  be- 
longs to  his  mother  country."  Then  turning  to  Argensola 
— "This  gentleman,  too,  is  a  foreigner.  He  comes  from 
noble  Spain  which  owes  to  us  the  best  that  it  has — the 
worship  of  honor,  the  knightly  spirit." 

The  Spaniard  wished  to  remonstrate,  but  the  Sage 
would  not  permit,  adding  in  an  oracular  tone: 

"You  were  miserable  Celts,  sunk  in  the  vileness  of  an 
inferior  and  mongrel  race  whose  domination  by  Rome  but 
made  your  situation  worse.  Fortunately  you  were  con- 
quered by  the  Goths  and  others  of  our  race  who  im- 
planted in  you  a  sense  of  personal  dignity.  Do  not  for- 
get, young  man,  that  the  Vandals  were  the  ancestors  of 
the  Prussians  of  to-day." 

Again  Argensola  tried  to  speak,  but  his  friend  signed 
to  him  not  to  interrupt  the  professor  who  appeared  to 
have  forgotten  his  former  reserve  and  was  working  up  to 
an  enthusiastic  pitch  with  his  own  words. 

"We  are  going  to  witness  great  events,"  he  continued. 
"Fortunate  are  those  born  in  this  epoch,  the  most  inter- 
esting in  history!  At  this  very  moment,  humanity  is 
changing  its  course.     Now  the  true  civilization  begins." 

The  war,  according  to  him,  was  going  to  be  of  a  brevity 
hitherto  unseen.  Germany  had  been  preparing  herself  to 
bring  about  this  event  without  any  long,  economic  world- 
disturbance.    A  single  month  would  be  enough  to  crusk 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  125 

France,  the  most  to  be  feared  of  their  adversaries.  Then 
they  would  march  against  Russia,  who  with  her  slow, 
clumsy  movements  could  not  oppose  an  immediate  de- 
fense. Finally  they  would  attack  haughty  England,  so 
isolated  in  its  archipelago  that  it  could  not  obstruct  the 
sweep  of  German  progress.  This  would  make  a  series 
of  rapid  blows  and  overwhelming  victories,  requiring 
only  a  summer  fn  which  to  play  this  magnificent  role. 
The  fall  of  the  leaves  in  the  following  autumn  would 
greet  the  definite  triumph  of  Germany. 

With  the  assurance  of  a  professor  who  does  not  expect 
his  dictum  to  be  refuted  b>'  his  hearers,  he  explained  the 
superiority  of  the  German  race.  All  mankind  was 
divided  into  two  groups — dolicephalous  and  the  brachi- 
cephalous,  according  to  the  shape  of  the  skull.  Another 
scientific  classification  divided  men  into  the  light-haired 
and  dark-haired.  The  dolicephalous  (arched  heads)  rep- 
resented purity  of  race  and  superior  mentality.  The 
brachicephalous  (flat  heads)  were  mongrels  with  all 
the  stigma  of  degeneration.  The  German,  dolicephalous 
par  excellence,  was  the  only  descendant  of  the  primitive 
Aryans.  All  the  other  nations,  especially  those  of  the 
south  of  Europe  called  "latins,"  belonged  to  a  degenerate 
humanity. 

The  Spaniard  could  not  contain  himself  any  longer. 
"But  no  person  with  any  intelligence  believes  any  more 
in_  those  antique  theories  of  race !  What  if  there  no 
longer  existed  a  people  of  absolutely  pure  blood,  owing 
to  thousands  of  admixtures  due  to  historical  conquest!" 
.  .  .  Many  Germans  bore  the  identical  ethnic  marks 
which  the  professor  was  attributing  to  the  inferior  races. 

"There  is  something  in  that,"  admitted  Hartrott,  "but 
although  the  German  race  may  not  be  perfectly  pure,  it 
is  the  least  impure  of  all  races  and,  therefore,  should 
have  dominion  over  the  world." 


126    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

His  voice  took  on  an  ironic  and  cutting  edge  when 
speaking  of  the  Celts,  inhabitants  of  the  lands  of  the 
South.  They  had  retarded  the  progress  of  Humanity, 
deflecting  it  in  the  wrong  direction.  The  Celt  is  indi- 
vidualistic and  consequently  an  ungovernable  revolution- 
ary who  tends  to  socialism.  Furthermore,  he  is  a  humani- 
tarian and  makes  a  virtue  of  mercy,  defending  the  ex- 
istence of  the  weak  who  do  not  amount  to  anything. 

The  illustrious  German  places  above  everything  else, 
Method  and  Power.  Elected  by  Nature  to  command  the 
impotent  races,  he  possesses  all  the  qualifications  that  dis- 
tinguish the  superior  leader.  The  French  Revolution 
was  merely  a  clash  between  Teutons  and  Celts.  The 
nobility  of  France  were  descended  from  Germanic  war- 
riors established  in  the  country  after  the  so-called  in- 
vasion of  the  barbarians.  The  middle  and  lower  classes 
were  the  Gallic-Celtic  element.  The  inferior  race  had 
conquered  the  superior,  disorganizing  the  country  and 
perturbing  the  world.  Celtism  was  the  inventor  of 
Democracy,  of  the  doctrines  of  Socialism  and  Anarchy. 
Now  the  hour  of  Germanic  retaliation  was  about  to  strike, 
and  the  Northern  race  would  re-establish  order,  since 
God  had  favored  it  by  demonstrating  its  indisputable 
superiority. 

''A  nation,"  he  added,  "can  aspire  to  great  destinies 
only  when  it  is  fundamentally  Teutonic.  The  less  Ger- 
man it  is,  the  less  its  civilization  amounts  to.  We  rep- 
resent 'the  aristocracy  of  humanity,'  'the  salt  of  the 
earth,'  as  our  William  said." 

Argensola  was  listening  with  astonishment  to  this  out- 
pouring of  conceit.  All  the  great  nations  had  passed 
through  the  fever  of  Imperialism.  The  Greeks  aspired 
to  world-rule  because  they  were  the  most  civilized  and 
believed  themselves  the  most  fit  to  give  civilization  to 
the  rest  of  mankind.     The  Romans,  upon  conquering 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  127 

countries,  implanted  law  and  the  rule  of  justice.  The 
Prench  of  the  Revolution  and  the  Empire  justified  their 
invasions  on  the  plea  that  they  wished  to  liberate  man- 
kind and  spread  abroad  new  ideas.  Even  the  Spaniards 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  when  battling  with  half  of 
Europe  for  religious  unity  and  the  extermination  of 
heresy,  were  working  toward  their  ideals  obscure  and 
perhaps  erroneous,  but  disinterested. 

All  the  nations  of  history  had  been  struggling  for  some- 
thing which  they  had  considered  generous  and  above 
their  own  interests.  Germany  alone,  according  to  this 
professor,  was  trying  to  impose  itself  upon  the  world 
in  the  name  of  racial  superiority — a  superiority  that  no- 
body had  recognized,  that  she  was  arrogating  to  herself, 
coating  her  affirmations  with  a  varnish  of  false  science. 

"Until  now  wars  have  been  carried  on  by  the  soldiery," 
continued  Hartrott.  "That  which  is  now  going  to  begin 
will  be  waged  by  a  combination  of  soldiers  and  profes- 
sors. In  its  preparation  the  University  has  taken  as  much 
part  as  the  military  staff.  German  science,  leader  of  all 
sciences,  is  united  forever  with  what  the  Latin  revolu- 
tionists disdainfully  term  militarism.  Force,  mistress  of 
the  world,  is  what  creates  right,  that  which  our  truly 
unique  civilization  imposes.  Our  armies  are  the  rep- 
resentatives of  our  culture,  and  in  a  few  weeks  we  shall, 
free  the  world  from  its  decadence,  completely  rejuve- 
nating it." 

The  vision  of  the  immense  future  of  his  race  was 
leading  him  on  to  expose  himself  with  lyrical  enthusiasm. 
William  I,  Bismarck,  all  the  heroes  of  past  victories,  in- 
spired his  veneration,  but  he  spoke  of  them  as  dying 
gods  whose  hour  had  passed.  They  were  glorious  an- 
cestors of  modest  pretensions  who  had  confined  their 
activities  to  enlarging  the  frontiers,  and  to  establishing 
the  unity  of  the  Empire,  afterwards  opposing  themselves 


128    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

with  the  prudence  of  valetudinarians  to  the  daring  of  the 
new  generation.  Their  ambitions  went  no  further  than 
a  continental  hegemony  .  .  ,  but  now  William  II  had 
leaped  into  the  arena,  the  complex  hero  that  the  country 
required. 

"Lamprecht,  my  master,  has  pictured  his  greatness. 
It  is  tradition  and  the  future,  method  and  audacity.  Like 
his  grandfather,  the  Emperor  holds  the  conviction  of 
what  monarchy  by  the  grace  of  God  represents,  but  his 
vivid  and  modem  intelligence  recognizes  and  accepts 
modern  conditions.  At  the  same  time  that  he  is  romantic, 
feudal  and  a  supporter  of  the  agrarian  conservatives,  he 
is  also  an  up-to-date  man  who  seeks  practical  solutions 
and  shows  a  utilitarian  spirit.  In  him  are  correctly  bal- 
anced instinct  and  reason." 

Germany,  guided  by  this  hero,  had,  according  to  Hart- 
rott,  been  concentrating  its  strength,  and  recognizing  its 
true  path.  The  Universities  supported  him  even  more 
unanimously  than  the  army.  Why  store  up  so  much 
power  and  maintain  it  without  employment?  .  .  .  The 
empire  of  the  world  belongs  to  the  German  people.  The 
historians  and  philosophers,  disciples  of  Treitschke,  were 
taking  it  upon  themselves  to  frame  the  rights  that  would 
justify  this  universal  domination.  And  Lamprecht,  the 
psychological  historian,  like  the  other  professors,  was 
launching  the  belief  in  the  absolute  superiority  of  the 
Germanic  race.  It  was  just  that  it  should  rule  the  world, 
since  it  only  had  the  power  to  do  so.  This  "telurian  ger- 
manization"  was  to  be  of  immense  benefit  to  mankind. 
The  earth  was  going  to  be  happy  under  the  dictatorship 
of  a  people  born  for  mastery.  The  German  state,  "ten- 
tacular potency,"  would  eclipse  with  its  glory  the  most 
imposing  empire  of  the  past  and  present.     Gott  mit  uns! 

"Who  will  be  able  to  deny,  as  my  master  says,  that 
there  exists  a  Christian,  German  God,  the  'Great  Ally,' 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  129 

who  is  showing  himself  to  our  enemies,  the  foreigners, 
as  a  strong  and  jealous  divinity?"   .    .    . 

Desnoyers  was  listening  to  his  cousin  with  astonish- 
ment and  at  the  same  time  looking  at  Argensola  who,  with 
a  flutter  of  his  eyes,  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him,  "He  is 
mad!    These  Germans  are  simply  mad  with  pride." 

Meanwhile,  the  professor,  unable  to  curb  his  enthusi- 
asm, continued  expounding  the  grandeur  of  his  race. 
From  his  viewpoint,  the  providential  Kaiser  had  shown 
inexplicable  weakenings.  He  was  too  good  and  too  kind. 
"Deliciae  generis  huniani,"  as  had  said  Professor  Lasson, 
another  of  Hartrott's  masters.  Able  to  overthrow  every- 
thing with  his  annihilating  power,  the  Emperor  was 
limiting  himself  merely  to  maintaining  peace.  But  the 
nation  did  not  wish  to  stop  there,  and  was  pushing  its 
leader  until  it  had  him  started.  It  was  useless  now  to 
put  on  the  brakes.  "He  who  does  not  advance  recedes" ; 
— ^that  was  the  cry  of  Pan-Germanism  to  the  Emperor. 
He  must  press  on  in  order  to  conquer  the  entire  world. 

"And  now  war  comes,"  continued  the  pedant.  "We 
need  the  colonies  of  the  others,  even  though  Bismarck, 
through  an  error  of  his  stubborn  old  age,  exacted  nothing 
at  the  time  of  universal  distribution,  letting  England  and 
France  get  possession  of  the  best  lands.  We  must  con- 
trol all  countries  that  have  Germanic  blood  and  have  been 
civilized  by  our  forbears." 

Hartrott  enumerated  these  countries.  Holland  and 
Belgium  were  German.  France,  through  the  Franks, 
was  one-third  Teutonic  blood.  Italy.  .  .  .  Here  the 
professor  hesitated,  recalling  the  fact  that  this  nation  was 
still  an  ally,  certainly  a  little  insecure,  but  still  united  by 
diplomatic  bonds.  He  mentioned,  nevertheless,  the 
Longobards  and  other  races  coming  from  the  North. 
Spain  and  Portugal  had  been  populated  by  the  ruddy 


130    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Goth  and  also  belonged  to  the  dominant  race.  And  since 
the  majority  of  the  nations  of  America  were  of  Spanish 
and  Portuguese  origin,  they  should  also  be  included  in 
this  recovery. 

"It  is  a  little  premature  to  think  of  these  last  nations 
just  yet,"  added  the  Doctor  modestly,  "but  some  day  the 
hour  of  justice  will  sound.  After  our  continental 
triumph,  we  shall  have  time  to  think  of  their  fate.  .  .  . 
North  America  also  should  receive  our  civilizing  in- 
fluence, for  there  are  living  millions  of  Germans  who  have 
created  its  greatness." 

He  was  talking  of  the  future  conquests  as  though  they 
were  marks  of  distinction  with  which  his  country  was 
going  to  favor  other  countries.  These  were  to  continue 
living  politically  the  same  as  before  with  their  individual 
governments,  but  subject  to  the  Teutons,  like  minors  re- 
quiring the  strong  hand  of  a  master.  They  would  form 
the  Universal  United  States,  with  an  hereditary  and  all- 
powerful  president — the  Emperor  of  Germany — receiv- 
ing all  the  benefits  of  Grermanic  culture,  working  dis- 
ciplined under  his  industrial  direction.  .  .  .  But  the 
world  is  ungrateful,  and  human  badness  always  opposes 
itself  to  progress. 

"We  have  no  illusions,"  sighed  the  professor,  with 
lofty  sadness.  "We  have  no  friends.  All  look  upon  us 
with  jealousy,  as  dangerous  beings,  because  we  are  the 
most  intelligent,  the  most  active,  and  have  proved  our- 
seVjes  superior  to  all  others.  .  .  .  But  since  they  no 
longer  love  us,  let  them  fear  us !  As  my  friend  Mann 
says,  although  Kultur  is  the  spiritual  organization  of  the 
world,  it  does  not  exclude  bloody  savagery  when  that  be- 
comes necessary.  Kultur  sanctifies  the  demon  within  us, 
and  is  above  morality,  reason  and  science.  We  are  going 
to  impose  Kultur  by  force  of  the  cannon." 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  131 

Argensola  continued,  saying  with  his  eyes,  "They  are 
crazy,  crazy  with  pride!  .  .  .  What  can  the  world 
expect  of  such  people !" 

Desnoyers  here  intervened  in  order  to  brighten  this 
gloomy  monologue  with  a  little  optimism.  War  had  not 
yet  been  positively  declared.  The  diplomats  were  still 
trying  to  arrange  matters.  Perhaps  it  might  all  turn  out 
peaceably  at  the  last  minute,  as  had  so  often  happened 
before.  His  cousin  was  seeing  things  entirely  distorted 
by  an  aggressive  enthusiasm. 

Oh,  the  ironical,  ferocious  and  cutting  smile  of  the  Doc- 
tor !  Argensola  had  never  known  old  Madariaga,  but  it, 
nevertheless,  occurred  to  him  that  in  this  fashion  sharks 
must  smile,  although  he,  too,  had  never  seen  a  shark. 

"It  is  war,"  boomed  Hartrott.  "When  I  left  Germany, 
fifteen  days  ago,  I  knew  that  war  was  inevitable." 

The  certainty  with  which  he  said  this  dissipated  all 
Julio's  hope.  Moreover,  this  man's  trip,  on  the  pretext 
of  seeing  his  mother,  disquieted  him.  .  .  .  On  what 
mission  had  Doctor  Julius  von  Hartrott  come  to 
Paris?  .    .    . 

"Well,  then,"  asked  Desnoyers,  "why  so  many  dip- 
lomatic interviews?  Why  does  the  German  government 
intervene  at  all — although  in  such  a  lukewarm  way — 
in  the  struggle  between  Austria  and  Servia.  .  .  . 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  declare  war  right  out  ?" 

The  professor  replied  with  simplicity:  "Our  govern- 
ment undoubtedly  wishes  that  the  others  should  declare 
the  war.  The  role  of  outraged  dignity  is  always  the  most 
pleasing  one  and  justifies  all  ulterior  resolutions,  how- 
ever extreme  they  may  seem.  There  are  some  of  our 
people  who  are  living  comfortably  and  do  not  desire  war. 
It  is  expedient  to  make  them  believe  that  those  who 
impose  it  upon  us  are  our  enemies  so  that  they  may  feel 


132    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  necessity  of  defending  themselves.  Only  superior 
minds  reach  the  conviction  of  the  great  advancement 
that  can  be  accomplished  by  the  sword  alone,  and  that 
war,  as  our  grand  Treitschke  says,  is  the  highest  form  of 
progress." 

Again  he  smiled  with  a  ferocious  expression.  Mor- 
ality, from  his  point  of  view,  should  exist  among  indi- 
viduals only  to  make  them  more  obedient  and  disciplined, 
for  morality  per  se  impedes  governments  and  should  be 
suppressed  as  a  useless  obstacle.  For  the  State  there 
exists  neither  truth  nor  falsehood ;  it  only  recognizes 
the  utility  of  things.  The  glorious  Bismarck,  in  order 
to  consummate  the  war  with  France,  the  base  of  German 
grandeur,  had  not  hesitated  to  falsify  a  telegraphic  des- 
patch. 

"And  remember,  that  he  is  the  most  glorious  hero  of 
our  time !  History  looks  leniently  upon  his  heroic  feat. 
Who  would  accuse  the  one  who  triumphs?  .  .  .  Pro- 
fessor Hans  Delbruck  has  written  with  reason,  'Blessed 
be  the  hand  that  falsified  the  telegram  of  Ems !' " 

It  was  convenient  to  have  the  war  break  out  imme- 
diately, in  order  that  events  might  result  favorably  for 
Germany,  whose  enemies  are  totally  unprepared.  Pre- 
ventive war  was  recommended  by  General  Bernhardi  and 
other  illustrious  patriots.  It  would  be  dangerous  indeed 
to  defer  the  declaration  of  war  until  the  enemies  had 
fortified  themselves  so  that  they  should  be  the  ones  to 
make  war.  Besides,  to  the  Germans  what  kind  of 
deterrents  could  law  and  other  fictions  invented  by  weak 
nations  possibly  be  ?  .  .  .  No ;  they  had  the  Power, 
and  Power  creates  new  laws.  If  they  proved  to  be  the 
victors,  History  would  not  investigate  too  closely  the 
means  by  which  they  had  conquered.  It  was  Germany 
that  was  going  to  win,  and  the  priests  of  all  cults  would 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  133 

finally  sanctify  with  their  chants  the  blessed  war — if  it 
led  to  triumph. 

"We  are  not  making  war  in  order  to  punish  the  Servian 
regicides,  nor  to  free  the  Poles,  nor  the  others  oppressed 
by  Russia,  stopping  there  in  admiration  of  our  disinter- 
ested magnanimity.  We  wish  to  wage  it  because  we  are 
the  first  people  of  the  earth  and  should  extend  our 
activity  over  the  entire  planet.  Germany's  hour  has 
sounded.  We  are  going  to  take  our  place  as  the  powerful 
Mistress  of  the  World,  the  place  which  Spain  occupied 
in  former  centuries,  afterwards  France,  and  England  to- 
day. What  those  people  accomplished  in  a  struggle  of 
many  years  we  are  going  to  bring  about  in  four  months. 
The  storm-flag  of  the  Empire  is  now  going  to  wave  over 
nations  and  oceans ;  the  sun  is  going  to  shine  on  a  great 
slaughter.  .    .    . 

"Old  Rome,  sick  unto  death,  called  'barbarians'  the 
Germans  who  opened  the  grave.  The  world  to-day  also 
smells  death  and  will  surely  call  us  barbarians.  .  .  . 
So  be  it!  When  Tangiers  and  Toulouse,  Amberes  and 
Calais  have  become  submissive  to  German  barbarism 
.  .  .  then  we  will  speak  further  of  this  matter.  We 
have  the  power,  and  who  has  that  needs  neither  to  hesi- 
tate nor  to  argue.  .  .  .  Power !  .  .  .  That  is  the  beauti- 
ful word — the  only  word  that  rings  true  and  clear.  .  ,  . 
Power!  One  sure  stab  and  all  argument  is  answered 
forever !" 

"But  are  you  so  sure  of  victory?"  asked  Desmoyers. 
"Sometimes  Destiny  gives  us  great  surprises.  There  are 
hidden  forces  that  we  must  take  into  consideration  or 
they  may  overturn  the  best-laid  plans." 

The  smile  of  the  Doctor  became  increasingly  scornful 
and  arrogant.  Everything  had  been  foreseen  and  studied 
out  long  ago  with  the  most  minute  Germanic  method. 


134    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

What  had  they  to  fear?  .  .  .  The  enemy  most  to  be 
reckoned  with  was  France,  incapable  of  resisting  the  ener- 
vating moral  influences,  the  sufferings,  the  strain  and 
the  privations  of  war; — a  nation  physically  debilitated 
and  so  poisoned  by  revolutionary  spirit  that  it  had  laid 
aside  the  use  of  arms  through  an  exaggerated  love  of 
comfort. 

"Our  generals,"  he  announced,  "are  going  to  leave  her 
in  such  a  state  that  she  will  never  again  cross  our  path." 

There  was  Russia,  too,  to  consider,  but  her  amorphous 
masses  were  slow  to  assemble  and  unwieldy  to  move.  The 
Executive  Staff  of  Berlin  had  timed  everything  by  meas- 
ure for  crushing  France  in  four  weeks,  and  would  then 
lead  its  enormous  forces  against  the  Russian  empire 
before  it  could  begin  action. 

"We  shall  finish  with  the  bear  after  killing  the  cock," 
affirmed  the  professor  triumphantly. 

But  guessing  at  some  objection  from  his  cousin,  he  has- 
tened on — "I  know  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me.  There 
remains  another  enemy,  one  that  has  not  yet  leaped  into 
the  lists  but  which  all  the  Germans  are  waiting  for.  That 
one  inspires  more  hatred  than  all  the  others  put  together, 
because  it  is  of  our  blood,  because  it  is  a  traitor  to  the 
race.  .  .  .    Ah,  how  we  loathe  it!" 

And  in  the  tone  in  which  these  words  were  uttered 
throbbed  an  expression  of  hatred  and  a  thirst  for  ven- 
geance which  astonished  both  listeners. 

"Even  though  England  attack  us,"  continued  Hartrott, 
"we  shall  conquer,  notwithstanding.  This  adversary  is 
not  more  terrible  than  the  others.  For  the  past  century 
she  has  ruled  the  world.  Upon  the  fall  of  Napoleon  she 
seized  the  continental  hegemony,  and  will  fight  to  keep  it. 
But  what  does  her  energy  amount  to?  .  .  .  As  our 
Bernhardi  says,  the  English  people  are  merely  a  nation 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  135 

of  renters  and  sportsmen.  Their  army  is  formed  from 
the  dregs  of  the  nation.  The  country  lacks  military  spirit. 
We  are  a  people  of  warriors,  and  it  will  be  an  easy 
thing  for  us  to  conquer  the  English,  debilitated  by  a  false 
conception  of  life." 

The  Doctor  paused  and  then  added :  "We  are  counting 
on  the  internal  corruption  of  our  enemies,  on  their  lack  of 
unity,  God  will  aid  us  by  sowing  confusion  among  these 
detested  people.  In  a  few  days  you  will  see  His  hand. 
Revolution  is  going  to  break  out  in  France  at  the  same 
time  as  war.  The  people  of  Paris  will  build  barricades 
in  the  streets  and  the  scenes  of  the  Commune  will  repeat 
themselves.  Tunis,  Algiers  and  all  their  other  possessions 
are  about  to  rise  against  the  metropolis." 

Argensola  seized  the  opportunity  to  smile  with  an 
aggressive  incredulity. 

"I  repeat  it,"  insisted  Hartrott,  "that  this  country  is 
going  to  have  internal  revolution  and  colonial  insurrec- 
tion, I  know  perfectly  well  what  I  am  talking  about. 
.  .  .  Russia  also  will  break  out  into  revolution  with 
a  red  flag  that  will  force  the  Czar  to  beg  for  mercy  on 
his  knees.  You  have  only  to  read  in  the  papers  of  the 
recent  strikes  in  Saint  Petersburg,  and  the  manifestations 
of  the  strikers  with  the  pretext  of  President  Poincare's 
visit.  .  ,  .  England  will  see  her  appeals  to  her  colo- 
nies completely  ignored,  India  is  going  to  rise  against 
her,  and  Egypt,  too,  will  seize  this  opportunity  for  her 
emancipation." 

Julio  was  beginning  to  be  impressed  by  these  affirma- 
tions enunciated  with  such  oracular  certainty,  and  he  felt 
almost  irritated  at  the  incredulous  Argensola,  who  con- 
tinued looking  insolently  at  the  seer,  repeating  with  his 
winking  eyes,  "He  is  insane — insane  with  pride."  The 
man  certainly  must  have  strong  reasons  for  making  such  ' 
asvful  prophecies.    His  presence  in  Paris  just  at  this  time 


136    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

was  difficult  for  Desnoyers  to  understand,  and  gave  to  his 
words  a  mysterious  authority. 

"But  the  nations  will  defend  themselves,"  he  protested 
to  his  cousin.  "Victory  will  not  be  such  a  very  simple 
thing  as  you  imagine." 

"Yes,  they  will  defend  themselves,  and  the  struggle 
will  be  fiercely  contested.  It  appears  that,  of  late  years, 
France  has  been  paying  some  attention  to  her  army.  We 
shall  undoubtedly  encounter  some  resistance;  triumph 
may  be  somewhat  difficult,  but  we  are  going  to  prevail. 
.  .  .  You  have  no  idea  to  what  extent  the  offensive 
power  of  Germany  has  attained.  Nobody  knows  with 
certainty  beyond  the  frontiers.  If  our  foes  should  com- 
prehend it  in  all  its  immensity,  they  would  fall  on  their 
knees  beforehand  to  beg  for  mercy,  thus  obviating  the 
necessity  for  useless  sacrifices." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Julius  von  Hartrott  ap- 
peared lost  in  reverie.  The  very  thought  of  the  accumu- 
lated strength  of  his  race  submerged  him  in  a  species  of 
mystic  adoration. 

"The  preliminary  victory,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"we  gained  some  time  ago.  Our  enemies,  therefore,  hate 
us,  and  yet  they  imitate  us.  All  that  bears  the  stamp  of 
Germany  is  in  demand  throughout  the  world.  The  very 
countries  that  are  trying  to  resist  our  arms  copy  our 
methods  in  their  universities  and  admire  our  theories, 
even  those  which  do  not  attain  success  in  Germany. 
Oftentimes  we  laugh  among  ourselves,  like  the  Roman 
augurs,  upon  seeing  the  servility  with  which  they  follow 
us  !   .    .    .     And  yet  they  will  not  admit  our  superiority !" 

For  the  first  time,  Argensola's  eyes  and  general  ex- 
pression approved  the  words  of  Hartrott.  What  he  had 
just  said  was  only  too  true — the  world  was  a  victim  of 
"the  German  superstition."  An  intellectual  cowardice, 
the  fear  of  Force  had  made  it  admire  en  masse  and  in- 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN      ■        137 

discriminately,  everything  of  Teutonic  origin,  just  be- 
cause of  the  intensity  of  its  glitter — ^gold  mixed  with 
talcum.  The  so-called  Latins,  dazed  with  admiration, 
were,  with  unreasonable  pessimism,  becoming  doubtful  of 
their  ability,  and  thus  were  the  first  to  decree  their  own 
death.  And  the  conceited  Germans  merely  had  to  repeat 
the  words  of  these  pessimists  in  order  to  strengthen  their 
belief  in  their  own  superiority. 

With  that  Southern  temperament,  which  leaps  rapidly 
from  one  extreme  to  another,  many  Latins  had  pro- 
claimed that  in  the  world  of  the  future,  there  would  be 
no  place  for  the  Latin  peoples,  now  in  their  death-agony 
— adding  that  Germany  alone  preserved  the  latent  forces 
of  civilization.  The  French  who  declaimed  among  them- 
selves, with  the  greatest  exaggeration,  unconscious  that 
folks  were  listening  the  other  side  of  the  door,  had  pro- 
claimed repeatedly  for  many  years  past  that  France  was 
degenerating  rapidly  and  would  soon  vanish  from  the 
earth.  Then  why  should  they  resent  the  scorn  of  their 
enemies.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  the  Germans  share  in 
their  beliefs?  .    .    . 

The  professor,  misinterpreting  the  silent  agreement  of 
the  Spaniard  who  until  then  had  been  listening  with  such 
a  hostile  smile,  added: 

"Now  is  the  time  to  try  out  in  France  the  German 
culture,  implanting  it  there  as  conquerors." 

Here  Argensola  interrupted,  "And  what  if  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  German  culture,  as  a  celebrated  Teuton 
says  ?"  It  had  become  necessary  to  contradict  this  pedant 
who  had  become  insufferable  with  his  egotism.  Hart- 
rott  almost  jumped  from  his  chair  on  hearing  such  a 
doubt. 

"What  German  is  that  ?" 

"Nietzsche." 

The  professor  looked  at  him  jL-tyos^'v     A'ietzsche  had 


T38    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

said  to  mankind,  "Be  harsh !"  affirming  that  "a  righteous 
war  sanctifies  every  cause."  He  had  exalted  Bismarck; 
he  had  taken  part  in  the  war  of  '70;  he  was  glorifying 
Germany  when  he  spoke  of  "the  smiling  lion,"  and  "the 
blond  beast."  But  Argensola  listened  with  the  tranquil- 
lity of  one  sure  of  his  ground.  Oh,  hours  of  placid  read- 
ing near  the  studio  chimney,  listening  to  the  rain  beating 
against  the  pane !   .    .    . 

"The  philosopher  did  say  that,"  he  admitted,  "and  he 
said  many  other  very  different  things,  like  all  great 
thinkers.  His  doctrine  is  one  of  pride,  but  of  individual 
pride,  not  that  of  a  nation  or  race.  He  always  spoke 
against  'the  insidious  fallacy  of  race.' " 

Argensola  recalled  his  philosophy  word  for  word. 
Culture,  according  to  Nietzsche,  was  "unity  of  style  in  all 
the  manifestations  of  life."  Science  did  not  necessarily 
include  culture.  Great  knowledge  might  be  accompanied 
with  great  barbarity,  by  the  absence  of  style  or  by  the 
chaotic  confusion  of  all  styles.  Germany,  according  to 
the  philosopher,  had  no  genuine  culture  owing  to  its  lack 
of  style.  "The  French,"  he  had  said,  "were  at  the  head 
of  an  authentic  and  fruitful  culture,  whatever  their  valor 
might  be,  and  until  now  everybody  had  drawn  upon  it." 
Their  hatreds  were  concentrated  within  their  own  coun- 
try. "I  cannot  endure  Germany.  The  spirit  of  servility 
and  pettiness  penetrates  everywhere,  ...  I  believe 
only  in  French  culture,  and  what  the  rest  of  Europe  calls 
culture  appears  to  me  to  be  a  mistake.  The  few  individ- 
ual cases  of  lofty  culture  that  J.  met  in  Germany  were  of 
French  origin." 

"You  know,"  continued  Argensola,  "that  in  quarrelling 
with  Wagner  about  the  excess  of  Germanism  in  his  art, 
Nietzsche  proclaimed  the  necessity  of  mcditcrrancanizing 
music.  His  ideal  was  a  culture  for  all  Europe,  but  with 
a  Latin  base." 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  139 

Julius  von  Hartrott  replied  most  disdainfully  to  this, 
repeating  the  Spaniard's  very  words.  Men  who  thought 
much  said  many  things.  Besides,  Nietzsche  was  a  poet, 
completely  demented  at  his  death,  and  was  no  authority 
among  the  University  sages.  His  fame  had  only  been 
recognized  in  foreign  lands.  .  .  .  And  he  paid  no  further 
attention  to  the  youth,  ignoring  him  as  though  he  had 
evaporated  into  thin  air  after  his  presumption.  All  the 
professor's  attention  was  now  concentrated  on  Desnoyers. 

"This  country,"  he  resumed,  "is  dying  from  within. 
How  can  you  doubt  that  revolution  will  break  out  the 
minute  war  is  declared?  .  .  .  Have  you  not  noticed 
the  agitation  of  the  boulevard  on  account  of  the  Caillaux 
trial  ?  Reactionaries  and  revolutionists  have  been  assault- 
ing each  other  for  the  past  three  days.  I  have  seen  them 
challenging  one  another  with  shouts  and  songs  as  if  they 
were  going  to  come  to  blows  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
street.  This  division  of  opinion  will  become  accentuated 
when  our  troops  cross  the  frontier.  It  will  then  be  civil 
w^ar.  The  anti-militarists  are  clamoring  mournfully,  be- 
lieving that  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  government  to  pre- 
vent the  clash.  ...  A  country  degenerated  by  democracy 
and  by  the  inferiority  of  the  triumphant  Celt,  greedy 
for  full  liberty !  .  .  .  We  are  the  only  free  people  on 
earth  because  we  know  how  to  obey." 

This  paradox  made  Julio  smile.  Germany  the  only 
free  people!   .    .    . 

"It  is  so,"  persisted  Hartrott  energetically.  "We  have 
the  liberty  best  suited  to  a  great  people — economical  and 
intellectual  liberty." 

"And  poHtical  liberty?" 

The  professor  received  this  question  with  a  scornful 
shrug. 

"Political  liberty!  .  .  .  Only  decadent  and  ungov- 
cnqb-.e  oeople.  inferior  races  anxious  for  equality  and 


I40    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

democratic  confusion,  talk  about  political  liberty.  We 
Germans  do  not  need  it.  We  are  a  nation  of  masters  who 
recognize  the  sacredness  of  government,  and  we  wish  to 
be  commanded  by  those  of  superior  birth.  We  possess 
the  genius  of  organization." 

That,  according  to  the  Doctor,  was  the  grand  German 
secret,  and  the  Teutonic  race  upon  taking  possession  of 
the  world,  would  share  its  discovery  with  all.  The 
nations  would  then  be  so  organized  that  each  individual 
would  give  the  maximum  of  service  to  society.  Human- 
ity, banded  in  regiments  for  every  class  of  production, 
obeying  a  superior  officer,  like  machines  contributing  the 
greatest  possible  output  of  labor — there  you  have  the 
perfect  state !  Liberty  was  a  purely  negative  idea  if  not 
accompanied  with  a  positive  concept  which  would  make 
it  useful. 

The  two  friends  listened  with  astonishment  to  this  de- 
scription of  the  future  which  Teutonic  superiority  was 
offering  to  the  world.  Every  individual  submitted  to  in- 
tensive production,  the  same  as  a  bit  of  land  from  which 
its  owner  wishes  to  get  the  greatest  number  of  vegetables. 
.  .  .  Mankind  reduced  to  mechanics.  .  .  .  No  use- 
less operations  that  would  not  produce  immediate  results. 
.  ,  .  And  the  people  who  heralded  this  awful  idea  were 
the  very  philosophers  and  idealists  who  had  once  given 
contemplation  and  reflection  the  first  place  in  their  ex- 
istence !   .    .    . 

Hartrott  again  harked  back  to  the  inferiority  of  their 
racial  enemies.  In  order  to  combat  successfully,  it  re- 
quired self-assurance,  an  unquenchable  confidence  in  the 
superiority  of  their  own  powers. 

"At  this  very  hour  in  Berlin,  everyone  is  accepting  war, 
everyone  is  believing  that  victory  is  sure,  while  hcref 
.  .  .  I  do  not  say  that  the  French  are  afraid ;  they  have 
a  brave  past  that  galvanizes  them  at  certain  times — but 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  141 

they  are  so  depressed  that  it  is  easy  to  guess  that  they  will 
make  almost  any  sacrifices  in  order  to  evade  what  is 
coming  upon  them.  The  people  first  will  shout  with  en- 
thusiasm, as  it  always  cheers  that  which  carries  it  to  per- 
dition. The  upper  classes  have  no  faith  in  the  future; 
they  are  keeping  quiet,  but  the  presentiment  of  disaster 
may  easily  be  conjectured.  Yesterday  I  was  talking  with 
your  father.  He  is  French,  and  he  is  rich.  He  was 
indignant  against  the  government  of  his  country  for  in- 
volving the  nation  in  the  European  conflict  in  order  to 
defend  a  distant  and  uninteresting  people.  He  complains 
of  the  exalted  patriots  who  have  opened  the  abyss  be- 
tween Germany  and  France,  preventing  a  reconciliation. 
He  says  that  Alsace  and  Lorraine  are  not  worth  what 
a  war  would  cost  in  men  and  money.  .  .  .  He  recog- 
nizes our  greatness  and  is  convinced  that  we  have  pro- 
gressed so  rapidly  that  the  other  countries  cannot  come 
up  to  us.  .  .  .  And  as  your  father  thinks,  so  do  many 
others — all  those  who  are  wrapped  in  creature  comfort, 
and  fear  to  lose  it.  Believe  me,  a  country  that  hesitates 
and  fears  war  is  conquered  before  the  first  battle." 

Julio  evinced  a  certain  disquietude,  as  though  he  would 
like  to  cut  short  the  conversation. 

"Just  leave  my  father  out  of  it !  He  speaks  that  way 
to-day  because  war  is  not  yet  an  accomplished  fact,  and 
he  has  to  contradict  and  vent  his  indignation  on  whoever 
comes  near  him.  To-morrow  he  will  say  just  the  oppo- 
site.  .    .    .     My  father  is  a  Latin," 

The  professor  looked  at  his  watch.  He  must  go ;  there 
were  still  many  things  which  he  had  to  do  before  going 
to  the  station.  The  Germans  living  in  Paris  had  fled  in 
great  bands  as  though  a  secret  order  had  been  circulating 
among  them.  That  afternoon  the  last  of  those  who  had 
been  living  ostensibly  in  the  Capital  would  depart. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you  because  of  our  family  interest, 


142    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

because  it  was  my  duty  to  give  you  fair  warning.  You 
are  a  foreigner,  and  not-hing  holds  you  here.  If  you  are 
desirous  of  witnessing  a  great  historic  event,  remain — 
but  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  go.  The  war  is  going  to 
be  ruthless,  very  ruthless,  and  if  Paris  attempts  re- 
sistance, as  formerly,  we  shall  see  terrible  things.  Modes 
of  offense  have  greatly  changed." 

Desnoyers  made  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

"The  same  as  your  father,"  observed  the  professor. 
"Last  night  he  and  all  your  family  responded  in  the  same 
way.  Even  my  mother  prefers  to  remain  with  her  sister, 
saying  that  the  Germans  are  very  good,  very  civilized 
and  there  is  nothing  to  apprehend  in  their  triumph." 

This  good  opinion  seemed  to  be  troubling  the  Doctor. 
,  "They  don't  understand  what  modern  warfare  means. 
They  ignore  the  fact  that  our  generals  have  studied  the 
art  of  overcoming  the  enemy  and  they  will  apply  it  merci- 
lessly. Ruthlessness  is  the  only  means,  since  it  perturbs 
the  intelligence  of  the  enemy,  paralyzes  his  action  and 
pulverizes  his  resistance.  The  more  ferocious  the  war, 
the  more  quickly  it  is  concluded.  To  punish  with  cruelty 
is  to  proceed  humanely.  Therefore,  Germany  is  going  to 
be  cruel  with  a  cruelty  hitherto  unseen,  in  order  that  the 
conflict  may  not  be  prolonged." 

He  had  risen  and  was  standing,  cane  and  straw  hat  in 
hand.  Argensola  was  looking  at  him  with  frank  hos- 
tility. The  professor,  obliged  to  pass  near  him,  did  so 
with  a  stiff  and  disdainful  nod. 

Then  he  started  toward  the  door,  accompanied  by  his 
cousin.    The  farewell  was  brief. 

"I  repeat  my  counsel.  H  you  do  not  like  danger,  go! 
It  may  be  that  I  am  mistaken,  and  that  this  nation,  con- 
vinced of  the  uselessness  of  defense,  may  give  itself  up 
voluntarily.  ...  At  any  rate,  we  shall  soon  see.  I 
shall  take  great  pleasure  in  returning  to  Paris  when  the 


THE  COUSIN  FROM  BERLIN  143 

flag  of  the  Empire  is  floating  over  the  Eiffel  Tower,  a 
mere  matter  of  three  or  four  weeks,  certainly  by  the  be- 
ginning of  September." 

France  was  going  to  disappear  from  the  map.  To  the 
Doctor,  her  death  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

"Paris  will  remain,"  he  admitted  benevolently,  "the 
French  will  remain,  because  a  nation  is  not  easily  sup- 
pressed ;  but  they  will  not  retain  their  former  place.  We 
shall  govern  the  world ;  they  will  continue  to  occupy 
themselves  in  inventing  fashions,  in  making  life  agree- 
able for  visiting  foreigners ;  and  in  the  intellectual  world, 
we  shall  encourage  them  to  educate  good  actresses,  to 
produce  entertaining  novels  and  to  write  witty  comedies. 
.    .    .     Nothing  more." 

Desnoyers  laughed  as  he  shook  his  cousin's  hand,  pre- 
tending to  take  his  words  as  a  paradox. 

"I  mean  it,"  insisted  Hartrott.  "The  last  hour  of  the 
French  Republic  as  an  important  nation  has  sounded.  I 
have  studied  it  at  close  range,  and  it  deserves  no  better 
fate.  License  and  lack  of  confidence  above — sterile  en- 
thusiasm below." 

Upon  turning  his  head,  he  again  caught  Argensola's 
malicious  smile. 

"We  know  all  about  that  kind  of  study,"  he  added 
aggressively.  "We  are  accustomed  to  examine  the  nations 
of  the  past,  to  dissect  them  fibre  by  fibre,  so  that  we 
recognize  at  a  glance  the  psychology'  of  the  living." 

The  Bohemian  fancied  that  he  saw  a  surgeon  talking 
self-sufficiently  about  the  mysteries  of  the  will  before  a 
corpse.  What  did  this  pedantic  interpreter  of  dead  docu- 
ments know  about  life  ?   .    .    . 

When  the  door  closed,  he  approached  his  friend  who 
was  returning  somewhat  dismayed.  Argensola  no  longer 
considered  Doctor  Julius  von  Hartrott  crazy. 

"What  a  brute  \"  he  exclaimed,  throwing  up  his  hands. 


144    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"And  to  think  that  they  are  at  large,  these  originators  of 
gloomy  errors!  .  .  .  Who  would  ever  believe  that 
they  belong  to  the  same  land  that  produced  Kant,  the 
pacifist,  the  serene  Goethe  and  Beethoven!  ...  To 
think  that  for  so  many  years,  we  have  believed  that 
they  were  forming  a  nation  of  dreamers  and  philosophers 
occupied  in  working  disinterestedly   for  all  mankind !" 

The  sentence  of  a  German  geographer  recurred  to 
him:  "The  German  is  bicephalous;  with  one  head  he 
dreams  and  poetizes  while  with  the  other  he  thinks  and 
executes." 

Desnoyers  w^as  now  beginning  to  feel  depressed  at  the 
certainty  of  war.  This  professor  seemed  to  him  even 
worse  than  the  Herr  Counsellor  and  the  other  Germans 
that  he  had  met  on  the  steamer.  His  distress  was  not 
only  because  of  his  selfish  thought  as  to  how  the  catas- 
trophe was  going  to  affect  his  plans  with  Marguerite. 
He  was  suddenly  discovering  that  in  this  hour  of  uncer- 
tainty he  loved  France.  He  recognized  it  as  his  father's 
native  land  and  the  scene  of  the  great  Revolution.  .  .  . 
Although  he  had  never  mixed  in  political  campaigns,  he 
was  a  republican  at  heart,  and  had  often  ridiculed  certain 
of  his  friends  who  adored  kings  and  emperors,  thinking 
it  a  great  sign  of  distinction. 

Argensola  tried  to  cheer  him  up. 

"Who  knows?  .  .  .  This  is  a  country  of  surprises. 
One  must  see  the  Frenchman  when  he  tries  to  remedy 
his  want  of  foresight.  Let  that  barbarian  of  a  cousin  of 
yours  say  what  he  will — there  is  order,  there  is  enthusi- 
asm. .  .  .  Worse  off  than  we  were  those  who  lived  in 
the  days  before  Valmy.  Entirely  disorganized,  their  only 
defense  battalions  of  laborers  and  countrymen  handling 
a  gun  for  the  first  time.  .  .  .  But,  nevertheless,  the 
Europe  of  the  old  monarchies  could  not  for  twenty  years 
free  themselves  from  these  improvised  warriors !" 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  APPEAR  THE  FOUR  HORSEMEN 

The  two  friends  now  lived  a  feverish  life,  considerably 
accelerated  by  the  rapidity  with  which  events  succeeded 
each  other.  Every  hour  brought  forth  an  astonishing  bit 
of  news — generally  false — which  changed  opinions  very 
suddenly.  As  soon  as  the  danger  of  war  seemed  ar- 
rested, the  report  would  spread  that  mobilization  was 
going  to  be  ordered  within  a  few  minutes. 

Within  each  twenty- four  hours  were  compressed  the 
disquietude,  anxiety  and  nervous  waste  of  a  normal  year. 
And  that  which  was  aggravating  the  situation  still  more 
was  the  uncertainty,  the  expectation  of  the  event,  feared 
but  still  invisible,  the  distress  on  account  of  a  danger 
continually  threatening  but  never  arriving. 

History  in  the  making  was  like  a  stream  overflowing 
its  banks,  events  overlapping  each  other  like  the  waves  of 
an  inundation.  Austria  was  declaring  war  with  Servia 
while  the  diplomats  of  the  great  powers  were  continuing 
their  efforts  to  stem  the  tide.  The  electric  web  girdling 
the  planet  was  vibrating  incessantly  in  the  depths  of  the 
ocean  and  on  the  peaks  of  the  continents,  transmitting 
alternate  hopes  and  fears. 

Russia  was  mobilizing  a  part  of  its  army.  Germany, 
with  its  troops  in  readiness  under  the  pretext  of  manoeu- 
vres, was  decreeing  the  state  of  "threatened  war."  The 
Austrians,  regardless  of  the  efforts  of  diplomacy,  were 
beginning  the  bombardment  of  Belgrade.     William  H, 

145 


146    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

fearing  that  the  intervention  of  the  Powers  might  settle 
the  differences  between  the  Czar  and  the  Emperor  of 
Austria,  was  forcing  the  course  of  events  by  declaring 
war  upon  Russia.  Then  Germany  began  isolating  herself, 
cutting  off  railroad  and  telegraphic  communications  in 
order  to  shroud  in  mystery  her  invading  forces. 

France  was  watching  this  avalanche  of  events,  temper- 
ate in  its  words  and  enthusiasm.  A  cool  and  grave 
resolution  was  noticeable  everywhere.  Two  generations 
had  come  into  the  world,  informed  as  soon  as  they 
reached  a  reasonable  age,  that  some  day  there  would  un- 
doubtedly be  war.  Nobody  wanted  it ;  the  adversary  im- 
posed it.  .  .  .  But  all  were  accepting  it  with  the  firm 
intention  of   fulfilling  their  duty. 

During  the  daytime  Paris  was  very  quiet,  concentrating 
the  mind  on  the  work  in  hand.  Only  a  few  groups  of  ex- 
alted patriots,  following  the  tricolored  flag,  were  passing 
through  the  place  de  la  Concorde,  in  order  to  salute  the 
statue  of  Strasbourg.  The  people  were  accosting  each 
other  in  a  friendly  way  in  the  streets.  Everybody  seemed 
to  know  everybody  else,  although  they  might  not  have  met 
before.  Eye  attracted  eye,  and  smiles  appeared  to 
broaden  mutually  with  the  sympathy  of  a  common  inter- 
est. The  women  were  sad  but  speaking  cheeri4y  in  order 
to  hide  their  emotions.  In  the  long  summer  twilight,  the 
boulevards  were  filling  with  crowds.  Those  from  the 
outlying  districts  were  converging  toward  the  centre  of 
the  city,  as  in  the  remote  revolutionary  days,  banding  to- 
gether in  groups,  forming  an  endless  multitude  from 
which  came  shouts  and  songs.  These  manifestations 
were  passing  through  the  centre  under  the  electric  lights 
that  were  just  being  turned  on,  the  processions  generally 
lasting  until  midnight,  with  the  national  banner  floating 
above  the  walking  crowds,  escorted  by  the  flags  of  other 
nations. 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     147 

It  was  on  one  of  these  nights  of  sincere  enthusiasm 
that  the  two  friends  heard  an  unexpected,  astonishing 
piece  of  news.  "They  have  killed  Jaures !"  The  groups 
were  repeating  it  from  one  to  another  with  an  amaze- 
ment which  seemed  to  overpower  their  grief.  "Jaures 
assassinated!  And  what  for?"  The  best  popular  ele- 
ment, which  instinctively  seeks  an  explanation  of  every 
proceeding,  remained  in  suspense,  not  knowing  which 
way  to  turn.  The  tribune  dead,  at  the  very  moment  that 
his  word  as  welder  of  the  people  was  most  needed  !   .    .    . 

Argensola  thought  immediately  of  Tchernoff.  "What 
will  our  neighbors  say?  .  .  .  The  quiet,  orderly 
people  of  Paris  were  fearing  a  revolution,  and  for  a  few 
moments  Desnoyers  believed  that  his  cousin's  auguries 
were  about  to  be  fulfilled.  This  assassination,  with  its 
retaliations,  might  be  the  signal  for  civil  war.  But  the 
masses  of  the  people,  worn  out  with  grief  at  the  death  of 
their  hero,  were  waiting  in  tragic  silence.  All  were  see- 
ing, beyond  his  dead  body,  the  image  of  the  country. 

By  the  following  morning,  the  danger  had  vanished. 
The  laboring  classes  were  talking  of  generals  and  war, 
showing  each  other  their  little  military  memorandums, 
announcing  the  date  of  their  departure  as  soon  as  the 
order  of  mobilization  should  be  published.  "I  go  the  sec- 
ond day."  "I  the  first."  Those  of  the  standing  army 
who  were  on  leave  were  recalled  individually  to  the  bar- 
racks. All  these  events  were  tending  in  the  same  direc- 
tion— war. 

The  Germans  were  invading  Luxembourg;  the  Ger- 
mans were  ordering  their  armies  to  invade  the  French 
frontier  when  their  ambassador  was  still  in  Paris  making 
promises  of  peace.  On  the  day  after  the  death  of  Jaures, 
the  first  of  August,  the  people  were  crowding  around 
some  pieces  of  paper,  written  by  hand  and  in  evident 
haste.    These  papers  were  copies  of  other  larger  printed 


148    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

sheets,  headed  by  two  crossed  flags.  "It  has  come ;  it  is 
now  a  fact!"  ...  It  was  the  order  for  general  mobili- 
zation. All  France  was  about  to  take  up  arms,  and  chests 
seemed  to  expand  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Eyes  were  spark- 
ling with  excitement.  The  nightmare  was  at  last  over ! 
.  .  .  Cruel  reaUty  was  preferable  to  the  uncertainty 
of  days  and  days,  each  as  long  as  a  week. 

In  vain  President  Poincare,  animated  by  a  last  hope, 
was  explaining  to  the  French  that  "mobilization  is  not 
necessarily  war,  that  a  call  to  arms  may  be  simply  a  pre- 
ventive measure."  "It  is  war,  inevitable  war,"  said  the 
populace  with  a  fatalistic  expression.  And  those  who 
were  going  to  start  that  very  night  or  the  following  day 
were  the  most  eager  and  enthusiastic — "Now  those  who 
seek  us  are  going  to  find  us!  Vive  la  France!"  The 
Chant  du  Depart,  the  martial  hymn  of  the  volunteers  of 
the  first  Republic,  had  been  exhumed  by  the  instinct  of 
a  people  which  seek  the  voice  of  Art  in  its  most  critical 
moments.  The  stanzas  of  the  conservative  Chenier, 
adapted  to  a  music  of  warlike  solemnity,  were  resounding 
through  the  streets,  at  the  same  time  as  the  Marseillaise: 

La  Republique  nous  appelle. 
Sachons  vaincre  ou  sachons  perir; 
Un  frangais  doit  vivre  pour  elle. 
Pour  elle  un  frangais  doit  mourir. 

The  mobilization  began  at  midnight  to  the  minute.  At 
dusk,  groups  of  men  began  moving  through  the  streets 
towards  the  stations.  Their  families  were  walking  beside 
them,  carrying  the  vaHse  or  bundle  of  clothes.  They  were 
escorted  by  the  friends  of  their  district,  the  tricolored  flag 
borne  aloft  at  the  head  of  these  platoons.  The  Reserves 
were  donning  their  old  uniforms  which  presented  all  the 
difficulties  of  suits  long  ago  forgotten.  With  new  leather 
belts  and  their  revolvers  at  their  sides,  they  were  be- 
taking themselves  to  the  railway  which  was  to  carry  them 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN    149 

to  the  point  of  concentration.  One  of  their  children  was 
carrying  the  old  sword  in  its  cloth  sheath.  The  wife  was 
hanging  on  his  arm,  sad  and  proud  at  the  same  time,  giv- 
ing her  last  counsels  in  a  loving  whisper. 

Street  cars,  automobiles  and  cabs  rolled  by  with  crazy 
velocity.  Nobody  had  ever  seen  so  many  vehicles  in  the 
Paris  streets,  yet  if  anybody  needed  one,  he  called  in 
vain  to  the  conductors,  for  none  wished  to  serve  mere 
civilians.  All  means  of  transportation  were  for  military 
men,  all  roads  ended  at  the  railroad  stations.  The  heavy 
trucks  of  the  administration,  filled  with  sacks,  were 
saluted  with  general  enthusiasm.  "Hurrah  for  the  army !" 
The  soldiers  in  mechanic's  garb,  on  top  of  the  swaying 
pyramid,  replied  to  the  cheers,  waving  their  arms  and 
uttering  shouts  that  nobody  pretended  to  understand. 

Fraternity  had  created  a  tolerance  hitherto  unknown. 
The  crowds  were  pressing  forward,  but  in  their  en- 
counters, invariably  preserved  good  order.  Vehicles 
were  running  into  each  other,  and  when  the  conductors 
resorted  to  the  customary  threats,  the  crowds  would  in- 
tervene and  make  them  shake  hands.  "Three  cheers  for 
France !"  The  pedestrians  escaping  between  the  wheels 
of  the  automobiles  were  laughing  and  good-naturedly 
reproaching  the  chauffeur  with  "Would  you  kill  a 
Frenchman  on  his  way  to  his  regiment?"  and  the  con- 
ductor would  reply,  "I,  too,  am  going  in  a  few  hours. 
This  is  my  last  trip."  As  night  approached,  cars  and  cabs 
were  running  with  increasing  irregularity,  many  of  the 
employees  having  abandoned  their  posts  to  take  leave  of 
their  families  and  make  the  train.  All  the  life  of  Paris 
was  concentrating  itself  in  a  half-dozen  human  rivers 
emptying  in  the  stations. 

Desnoyers  and  Argensola  met  in  a  boulevard  cafe 
toward  midnight.  Both  were  exhausted  by  the  day's  emo- 
tions and  under  that  nervous  depression  which  follows 


150    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

noisy  and  violent  spectacles.  They  needed  to  rest.  War 
was  a  fact,  and  now  that  it  was  a  certainty,  they  felt  no 
anxiety  to  get  further  news.  Remaining  in  the  cafe 
proved  impossible.  In  the  hot  and  smoky  atmosphere, 
the  occupants  were  singing  and  shouting  and  waving  tiny 
flags.  All  the  battle  hymns  of  the  past  and  present  were 
here  intoned  in  chorus,  to  an  accompaniment  of  glasses 
and  plates.  The  rather  cosmopolitan  clientele  was  re- 
viewing the  European  nations.  All,  absolutely  all,  were 
going  to  enroll  themselves  on  the  side  of  France.  "Hur- 
rah !  .  .  .  Hurrah !"  .  .  .  An  old  man  and  his  wife 
were  seated  at  a  table  near  the  two  friends.  They  were 
tenants,  of  an  orderly,  humdrum  walk  in  life,  who  per- 
haps in  all  their  existence  had  never  been  awake  at  such 
an  hour.  In  the  general  enthusiasm  they  had  come  to 
the  boulevards  "in  order  to  see  war  a  little  closer."  The 
foreign  tongue  used  by  his  neighbors  gave  the  husband 
a  lofty  idea  of  their  importance. 

"Do  you  believe  that  England  is  going  to  join  us?"  .  .  . 

Argensola  knew  as  much  about  it  as  he,  but  he  replied 
authoritatively,  "Of  course  she  will.  That's  a  sure 
thing!"  The  old  man  rose  to  his  feet:  "Hurrah  for 
England !"  and  he  began  chanting  a  forgotten  patriotic 
song,  marking  time  with  his  arms  in  a  spirited  way,  to 
the  great  admiration  of  his  old  wife,  and  urging  all  to 
join  in  the  chorus  that  very  few  were  able  to  follow. 

The  two  friends  had  to  take  themselves  home  on  foot. 
They  could  not  find  a  vehicle  that  would  stop  for  them ; 
all  were  hurrying  in  the  opposite  direction  toward  the 
stations.  They  were  both  in  a  bad  humor,  but  Argensola 
couldn't  keep  his  to  himself. 

"Ah,  these  women!"  Desnoyers  knew  all  about  his 
relations  (s©  far  honorable)  with  a  midinette  from  the 
rite  Taitbout.  Sunday  strolls  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris, 
various  trips  to  the  moving  picture  shows,  comments  upon 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     151 

the  fine  points  of  the  latest  novel  published  in  the  sheets 
of  a  popular  paper,  kisses  of  farewell  when  she  took  the 
night  train  from  Bois  Colombes  in  order  to  sleep  at  home 
— that  was  all.  But  Argensola  was  wickedly  counting  on 
Father  Time  to  mellow  the  sharpest  virtues.  That  eve- 
ning they  had  taken  some  refreshment  with  a  French 
friend  who  was  going  the  next  morning  to  join  his 
regiment.  The  girl  had  sometimes  seen  him  with  Argen- 
sola without  noticing  him  particularly,  but  now  she  sud- 
denly began  admiring  him  as  though  he  were  another 
person.  She  bad  given  up  the  idea  of  returning  home 
that  night;  she  wanted  to  see  how  a  war  begins.  The 
three  had  dined  together,  and  all  her  interest  had  centred 
upon  the  one  who  was  going  away.  She  even  took  of- 
fense, with  sudden  modesty,  when  Argensola  tried  as  he 
had  often  done  before,  to  squeeze  her  hand  under  the 
table.  Meanwhile  she  was  almost  leaning  her  head  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  future  hero,  enveloping  him  with  ad- 
miring gaze. 

"And  they  have  gone.  .  .  .  They  have  gone  away 
together!"  said  the  Spaniard  bitterly.  "I  had  to  leave 
them  in  order  not  to  make  my  hard  luck  any  worse.  To 
have  worked  so  long  .  .  .  for  another !" 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  then  changing  the 
trend  of  his  ideas,  he  added:  "I  recognize,  nevertheless, 
that  her  behavior  is  beautiful.  The  generosity  of  these 
women  when  they  believe  that  the  moment  for  sacrifice 
has  come !  She  is  terribly  afraid  of  her  father,  and  yet 
she  stays  away  from  home  all  night  with  a  person  whom 
she  hardly  knows,  and  whom  she  was  not  even  thinking 
of  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon!  .  .  .  The  entire 
nation  feels  gratitude  toward  those  who  are  going  to 
imperil  their  lives,  and  she,  poor  child,  wishing  to  do 
something,  too,  for  those  destined  for  death,  to  give 
them  a  little  pleasure  in  their  last  hour.  ...   is  giving 


152    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  best  she  has,  that  which  she  can  never  recover.  I 
have  sketched  her  role  poorly,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Laugh 
at  me  if  you  want  to,  but  admit  that  it  is  beautiful." 

Desnoyers  laughed  heartily  at  his  friend's  discomfiture, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he,  too,  was  suffering  a  good 
deal  of  secret  annoyance.  He  had  seen  Marguerite  but 
once  since  the  day  of  his  return.  The  only  news  of  her 
that  he  had  received  was  by  letter.  .  .  .  This  cursed 
war!  What  an  upset  for  happy  people!  Marguerite's 
mother  was  ill.  She  was  brooding  over  the  departure  of 
her  son,  an  officer,  on  the  first  day  of  the  mobilization. 
Marguerite,  too,  was  uneasy  about  her  brother  and  did 
not  think  it  expedient  to  come  to  the  studio  while  her 
mother  was  grieving  at  home.  When  was  this  situation 
ever  to  end  ?  .    .    . 

That  check  for  four  hundred  thousand  francs  which 
he  had  brought  from  America  was  also  worrying  him. 
The  day  before,  the  bank  had  declined  to  pay  it  for  lack 
of  the  customary  official  advice.  Afterward  they  said 
that  they  had  received  the  advice,  but  did  not  give  him 
the  money.  That  very  afternoon,  when  the  trust  com- 
panies had  closed  their  doors,  the  government  had  already 
declared  a  moratorium,  in  order  to  prevent  a  general 
bankruptcy  due  to  the  general  panic.  When  would  they 
pay  him?  .  .  .  Perhaps  when  the  war  which  had  not 
yet  begun  was  ended — perhaps  never.  He  had  no  other 
money  available  except  the  two  thousand  francs  left  over 
from  his  travelling  expenses.  All  of  his  friends  were  in 
the  same  distressing  situation,  unable  to  draw  on  the 
sums  which  they  had  in  the  banks.  Those  who  had  any 
money  were  obliged  to  go  from  shop  to  shop,  or  form 
in  line  at  the  bank  doors,  in  order  to  get  a  bill  changred. 
Oh,  this  war !    This  stupid  war ! 

In  the  Champs  Fly  sees,  they  saw  a  man  with  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  who  was  walking  slowly  ahead  of  them  aad 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN    153 

talking  to  himself.  Argensola  recognized  him  as  he 
passed  near  the  street  lamp,  "Friend  Tchemoff."  Upon 
returning  their  greeting,  the  Russian  betrayed  a  slight 
odor  of  wine.  Uninvited,  he  had  adjusted  his  steps  to 
theirs,  accompanying  them  toward  the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 

Julio  had  merely  exchanged  silent  nods  with  Argen- 
sola's  new  acquaintance  when  encountering  him  in  the 
vestibule ;  but  sadness  softens  the  heart  and  makes  us 
seek  the  friendship  of  the  humble  as  a  refreshing  shelter. 
TchernoflF,  on  the  contrary,  looked  at  Desnoyers  as 
though  he  had  known  him  all  his  life. 

The  man  had  interrupted  his  monologue,  heard  only 
by  the  black  masses  of  vegetation,  the  blue  shadows  per- 
forated by  the  reddish  tremors  of  the  street  lights,  the 
summer  night  with  its  cupola  of  warm  breezes  and  twink- 
ling stars.  He  took  a  few  steps  without  saying  any- 
thing, as  a  mark  of  consideration  to  his  companions,  and 
then  renewed  his  arguments,  taking  them  up  where  he 
had  broken  off,  without  offering  any  explanation,  as 
though  he  were  still  talking  to  himself.   .    .    . 

"And  at  this  very  minute,  they  are  shouting  with 
enthusiasm  the  same  as  they  are  doing  here,  honestly 
believing  that  they  are  going  to  defend  their  outraged 
country,  wishing  to  die  for  their  families  and  firesides 
that  nobody  has  threatened." 

"Who  are  'they,'  Tchernoff  ?"  asked  Argensola. 

The  Russian  stared  at  him  as  though  surprised  at  such 
a  question. 

"They,"  he  said  laconically. 

The  two  understood.  .  .  .  They!  It  could  not  be 
anyone  else. 

"I  have  lived  ten  years  in  Germany,"  he  continued,^ 
connecting  up  his  words,  now  that  he  found  himself 
listened  to.  "I  was  daily  correspondent  for  a  paper  in 
Berlin  and  I  know  these  people.     Passing  along  these 


154    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

thronged  boulevards,  I  have  been  seeing  in  my  imagina- 
tion what  must  be  happening  there  at  this  hour.  They, 
too,  are  singing  and  shouting  with  enthusiasm  as  they 
wave  their  flags.  On  the  outside,  they  seem  just  aUke — 
but  oh,  what  a  difference  within!  .  .  .  Last  night 
the  people  beset  a  few  babblers  in  the  boulevard  who 
were  yelling,  'To  Berlin!' — a  slogan  of  bad  memories 
and  worse  taste.  France  does  not  wish  conquests;  her 
only  desire  is  to  be  respected,  to  live  in  peace  without 
humiliations  or  disturbances.  To-night  two  of  the  mobi- 
lized men  said  on  leaving,  'When  we  enter  Germany  we 
are  going  to  make  it  a  republic!'  ...  A  republic  is 
not  a  perfect  thing,  but  it  is  better  than  living  under  an 
irresponsible  monarchy  by  the  grace  of  God.  It  at  least 
presupposes  tranquillity  and  absence  of  the  personal  am- 
bitions that  disturb  life.  I  was  impressed  by  the  generous 
thought  of  these  laboring  men  who,  instead  of  wishing 
to  exterminate  their  enemies,  were  planning  to  give  them 
something  better." 

Tchernoff  remained  silent  a  few  minutes,  smiling  iron- 
ically at  the  picture  which  his  imagination  was  calling 
forth. 

"In  Berlin,  the  masses  are  expressing  their  enthusiasm 
in  the  lofty  phraseology  befitting  a  superior  people.  Those 
in  the  lowest  classes,  accustomed  to  console  themselves 
for  humiliations  with  a  gross  materialism,  are  now  cry- 
ing 'Nach  Paris!  We  are  going  to  drink  champagne 
gratis!'  The  pietistic  burgher,  ready  to  do  anything  to 
attain  a  new  honor,  and  the  aristocracy  which  has  given 
the  world  the  greatest  scandals  of  recent  years,  are  also 
shouting,  'Nach  Paris!'  To  them  Paris  is  the  Babylon  of 
the  deadly  sin,  the  city  of  the  Moulin  Rouge  and  the  res- 
taurants of  Montmartre,  the  only  places  that  they  know. 
.  .  .  And  my  comrades  of  the  Social-Democracy,  they 
are  also  cheering,  but  to  another  tune. — 'To-morrow !  To 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN    155 

St.  Petersburg!  Russian  ascendency,  the  menace  of 
civilization,  must  be  obliterated !'  The  Kaiser  waving  the 
tyranny  of  another  country  as  a  scarecrow  to  his  people ! 
.    .    .     What  a  joke !" 

And  the  loud  laugh  of  the  Russian  sounded  through  the 
night  like  the  noise  of  wooden  clappers. 

"We  are  more  civilized  than  the  Germans,"  he  said,  re- 
gaining his  self-control. 

Desnoyers,  who  had  been  listening  with  great  interest, 
now  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  saying  to  himself,  "This 
Tchernoff  has  been  drinking." 

"Civilization,"  continued  the  Socialist,  "does  not  con- 
sist merely  in  great  industry,  in  many  ships,  armies  and 
numerous  universities  that  only  teach  science.  That  is 
material  civilization.  There  is  another,  a  superior  one, 
that  elevates  the  soul  and  does  not  permit  human 
dignity  to  suffer  without  protesting  against  continual 
humiliations.  A  Swiss  living  in  his  wooden  chalet  and 
considering  himself  the  equal  of  the  other  men  of  his 
country,  is  more  civilized  than  the  Herr  Professor  who 
gives  precedence  to  a  lieutenant,  or  to  a  Hamburg  million- 
aire who,  in  turn,  bends  his  neck  like  a  lackey  before 
those  whose  names  are  prefixed  by  a  von!' 

Here  the  Spaniard  assented  as  though  he  could  guess 
what  Tchernoff  was  going  to  say. 

"We  Russians  endure  great  tyranny.  I  know  some- 
thing about  that.  I  know  the  hunger  and  cold  of  Siberia. 
.  .  .  But  opposed  to  our  tyranny  has  always  ex- 
isted a  revolutionary  protest.  Part  of  the  nation  is  half- 
barbarian,  but  the  rest  has  a  superior  mentality,  a  lofty 
moral  spirit  which  faces  danger  and  sacrifice  because  of 
liberty  and  truth.  .  .  .  And  Germany?  Who  there 
has  ever  raised  a  protest  in  order  to  defend  human  rights? 
What  revolutions  have  ever  broken  out  in  Prussia,  the 
land  of  the  great  despots? 


156    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Frederick  William,  the  founder  of  militarism,  when 
he  was  tired  of  beating  his  wife  and  spitting  in  his  chil- 
dren's plates,  used  to  sally  forth,  thong  in  hand,  in  order 
to  cowhide  those  subjects  who  did  not  get  out  of  his 
way  in  time.  His  son,  Frederick  the  Great,  declared 
that  he  died,  bored  to  death  with  governing  a  nation  of 
slaves.  In  two  centuries  of  Prussian  history,  one  single 
revolution — the  barricades  of  1848 — a  bad  Berlinish  copy 
of  the  Paris  revolution,  and  without  any  result.  Bis- 
marck corrected  with  a  heavy  hand  so  as  to  crush  com- 
pletely the  last  attempts  at  protest — if  such  ever  really 
■existed.  And  when  his  friends  were  threatening  him  with 
revolution,  the  ferocious  Junker,  merely  put  his  hands  on 
his  hips  and  roared  with  the  most  insolent  of  horse 
laughs.  A  revolution  in  Prussia !  .  .  .  Nothing  at  all,  as  he 
knew  his  people !" 

Tchernoff  was  not  a  patriot.  Many  a  time  Argensola 
had  heard  him  railing  against  his  country,  but  now  he 
was  indignant  in  view  of  the  contempt  with  which  Teu- 
tonic haughtiness  was  treating  the  Russian  nation. 
Where,  in  the  last  forty  years  of  imperial  grandeur,  was 
that  universal  supremacy  of  which  the-  Germans  were 
everlastingly  boasting?  .    .    . 

Excellent  workers  in  science ;  tenacious  and  short- 
sighted academicians,  each  wrapped  in  his  specialty !— = 
Benedictines  of  the  laboratory  who  experimented  painS' 
takingly  and  occasionally  hit  upon  something,  in  spite 
of  enormous  blunders  given  out  as  truths,  because  they 
were  their  own  .  .  .  that  was  all !  And  side  by  side 
with  such  patient  laboriosity,  really  worthy  of  respect — • 
what  charlatanism!  What  great  names  exploited  as  a 
shop  sample!  How  many  sages  turned  into  proprietors 
of  sanatoriums  !  .  .  .  A  Herr  Professor  discovers  the 
cure  of  tuberculosis,  and  the  tubercular  keep  on  dying  as 
before.     Another  labels  with  a  number  the  invincible 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN    157 

remedy  for  the  most  unconfessable  of  diseases,  and  the 
genital  scourge  continues  afflicting  the  world.  And  all 
these  errors  were  representing  great  fortunes,  each  saving 
panacea  bringing  into  existence  an  industrial  corporation 
selling  its  products  at  high  prices — as  though  suffering 
were  a  privilege  of  the  rich.  How  different  from  the 
bluff  Pasteur  and  other  clever  men  of  the  inferior  races 
who  have  given  their  discoveries  to  the  world  without 
stooping  to  form  monopolies  ! 

"German  science,"  continued  Tchernoff,  "has  given 
much  to  humanity,  I  admit  that;  but  the  science  of  other 
nations  has  done  as  much.  Only  a  nation  puffed  up  with 
conceit  could  imagine  that  it  has  done  everything  for 
civilization,  and  the  others  nothing.  .  .  .  Apart  from 
their  learned  specialists,  what  genius  has  been  produced 
in  our  day  by  this  Germany  which  believes  itself  so 
transcendent?  Wagner,  the  last  of  the  romanticists, 
closes  an  epoch  and  belongs  to  the  past.  Nietzsche  took 
pains  to  proclaim  his  Polish  origin  and  abominated  Ger- 
many, a  country,  according  to  him,  of  middle-class  ped- 
ants. His  Slavism  was  so  pronounced  that  he  even 
prophesied  the  overthrow  of  the  Prussians  by  the  Slavs. 
.  .  .  And  there  are  others.  We,  although  a  savage 
people,  have  given  the  world  of  modern  times  an  ad- 
mirable moral  grandeur.  Tolstoi  and  Dostoievsky  are 
world-geniuses.  What  names  can  the  Germany  of  Wil- 
liam H  put  ahead  of  these?  .  .  .  His  country  was  the 
country  of  music,  but  the  Russian  musicians  of  to-day  are 
more  original  than  the  mere  followers  of  W^agner,  the 
copyists  who  take  refuge  in  orchestral  exasperations  in 
order  to  hide  their  mediocrity.  ...  In  its  time  of 
stress  the  German  nation  had  men  of  genius,  before  Pan- 
Germanism  had  been  born,  when  the  Empire  did  not 
exist.  Goethe,  Schiller,  Beethoven  were  subjects  of 
little  principalities.     They  received  influence  from  other 


158    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

countries  and  contributed  their  share  to  the  universal 
civilization  like  citizens  of  the  world,  without  insisting 
that  the  world  should,  therefore,  become  Germanized." 

Czarism  had  committed  atrocities.  Tchernoff  knew 
that  by  experience,  and  did  not  need  the  Germans  to 
assure  him  of  it.  But  all  the  illustrious  classes  of  Rus- 
sia were  enemies  of  that  tyranny  and  were  protesting 
against  it.  Where  in  Germany  were  the  intellectual  ene- 
mies of  Prussian  Czarism?  They  were  either  holding 
their  peace,  or  breaking  forth  into  adulation  of  the  anoint- 
ed of  the  Lord — a  musician  and  comedian  like  Nero, 
of  a  sharp  and  superficfal  intelligence,  who  believed  that 
by  merely  skimming  through  anything  he  knew  it  all. 
Eager  to  strike  a  spectacular  pose  in  history,  he  had 
finally  afflicted  the  world  with  the  greatest  of  calamities. 

"Why  must  the  tyranny  that  weighs  upon  my  country 
necessarily  be  Russian?  The  worst  Czars  were  imitators 
of  Prussia.  Every  time  that  the  Russian  people  of  our 
day  have  attempted  to  revindicate  their  rights,  the  re- 
actionaries have  used  the  Kaiser  as  a  threat,  proclaiming 
that  he  would  come  to  their  aid.  One-half  of  the  Rus- 
sian aristocracy  is  German ;  the  functionaries  who  advise 
and  support  despotism  are  Germans;  German,  too,  are 
the  generals  who  have  distinguished  themselves  by  mas- 
sacring the  people;  German  are  the  officials  who  under- 
take to  punish  the  laborers'  strikes  and  the  rebellion  of 
their  allies.  The  reactionary  Slav  is  brutal,  but  he  has  the 
fine  sensibility  of  a  race  in  which  many  princes  have  be- 
come Nihilists.  He  raises  the  lash  with  facility,  but 
then  he  repents  and  oftentimes  weeps.  I  have  seen 
Russian  officials  kill  themselves  rather  than  march 
against  the  people,  or  through  remorse  for  slaughter 
committed.  The  German  in  the  service  of  the  Czar  feels 
no  scruples,  nor  laments  his  conduct.  He  kills  coldly, 
with  the  minuteness  and  exactitude  with  which  he  does 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN    159 

everything.  The  Russian  is  a  barbarian  who  strikes  and 
regrets;  German  civilization  shoots  without  hesitation. 
Our  Slav  Czar,  in  a  humanitarian  dream,  favored  the 
Utopian  idea  of  universal  peace,  organizing  the  Con- 
ference of  The  Hague.  The  Kaiser  of  culture,  mean- 
while, has  been  working  years  and  years  in  the  erection 
and  establishment  of  a  destructive  organ  of  an  immensity 
heretofore  unknown,  in  order  to  crush  all  Europe.  The 
Russian  is  a  humble  Christian,  socialistic,  democratic, 
thirsting  for  justice;  the  German  prides  himself  upon 
his  Christianity,  but  is  an  idolater  like  the  German  of 
other  centuries.  His  religion  loves  blood  and  maintains 
castes;  his  true  worship  is  that  of  Odin; — only  that 
nowadays,  the  god  of  slaughter  has  changed  his  name  and 
calls  himself.  The  State'!" 

Tchernoff  paused  an  instant — perhaps  in  order  to  in- 
crease the  wonder  of  his  companions — ^and  then  said 
with  simplicity: 

"I  am  a  Christian." 

Argensola,  who  already  knew  the  ideas  and  history  of 
the  Russian,  started  with  astonishment,  and  Julio  per- 
sisted in  his  suspicion,  "Surely  Tchernoif  is  drunk." 

"It  is  true,"  declared  the  Russian  earnestly,  "that  I  do 
not  worry  about  God,  nor  do  I  believe  in  dogmas,  but  my 
soul  is  Christian  as  is  that  of  all  revolutionists.  The 
philosophy  of  modern  democracy  is  lay  Christianity.  We 
Socialists  love  the  humble,  the  needy,  the  weak.  We  de- 
fend their  right  to  life  and  well-being,  as  did  the  great- 
est lights  of  the  religious  world  who  saw  a  brother  in 
every  unfortunate.  We  exact  respect  for  the  poor  in  the 
name  of  justice;  the  others  ask  for  it  in  the  name  of 
charity.  That  only  separates  us.  But  we  strive  that  man- 
kind may,  by  common  consent,  lead  a  better  life,  that  the 
strong  may  sacrifice  for  the  weak,  the  lofty  for  the  lowly. 


i6o    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCAI.YPSE 

and  the  world  be  ruled  by  brotherliness,  seeking  the  great- 
est equality  possible." 

The  Slav  reviewed  the  history  of  human  aspirations. 
Greek  thought  had  brought  comfort,  a  sense  of  well- 
being  on  the  earth — but  only  for  the  few,  for  the  citizens 
of  the  little  democracies,  for  the  free  men,  leaving  the 
slaves  and  barbarians  who  constituted  the  majority,  in 
their  misery.  Christianity,  the  religion  of  the  lowly,  had 
recognized  the  right  of  happiness  for  all  mankind,  but 
this  happiness  was  placed  in  heaven,  far  from  this  world, 
this  "vale  of  tears."  The  Revolution  and  its  heirs,  the 
Socialists,  were  trying  to  place  happiness  in  the  immedi- 
ate realities  of  earth,  like  the  ancients,  but  making  ajl 
humanity  participants  in  it  like  the  Christians. 

"Where  is  the  Christianity  of  modern  Germany  ?  .  .  . 
There  is  far  more  genuine  Christian  spirit  in  the  frater- 
nal laity  of  the  French  Republic,  defender  of  the  weak, 
than  in  the  religiosity  of  the  conservative  Junkers.  Ger- 
many has  made  a  god  in  her  own  image,  believing  that 
she  adores  it,  but  in  reality  adoring  her  own  image. 
The  German  God  is  a  reflex  of  the  German  state  which 
considers  war  as  the  first  activity  of  a  nation  and  the 
noblest  of  occupations.  Other  Christian  peoples,  when 
they  have  to  go  to  war,  feel  the  contradiction  that  exists 
between  their  conduct  and  the  teachings  of  the  Gospel, 
and  excuse  themselves  by  showing  the  cruel  necessity 
which  impels  them.  Germany  declares  that  war  is  ac- 
ceptable to  God.  I  have  heard  German  sermons  prov- 
ing that  Jesus  was  in  favor  of  Militarism. 

"Teutonic  pride,  the  conviction  that  its  race  is  provi- 
dentially destined  to  dominate  the  world,  brings  into 
working  unity  their  Protestants,  Catholics  and  Jews. 

"Far  above  their  jifferences  of  dogma  is  that  God  of 
the  State  which  is  German — the  Warrior  God  to  whom 
William  is  probably  referring  as  'my  worthy  Ally.'    Re- 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     i6i 

ligions  always  tend  toward  universality.  Their  aim  is  to 
place  humanity  in  relationship  with  God,  and  to  sustain 
these  relations  among  mankind.  Prussia  has  retrograded 
to  barbarism,  creating  for  its  personal  use  a  second  Je- 
hovah, a  divinity  hostile  to  the  greater  part  of  the  human 
race  who  makes  his  own  the  grudges  and  ambitions  of 
the  German  people." 

Tchernoff  then  explained  in  his  own  way  the  creation 
of  this  Teutonic  God,  ambitious,  cruel  and  vengeful. 
The  Germans  w^ere  comparatively  recent  Christians. 
Their  Christianity  was  not  more  than  six  centuries  old. 
When  the  Crusades  were  drawing  to  a  close,  the  Prus- 
sians were  still  living  in  paganism.  Pride  of  race,  im- 
pelling them  to  war,  had  revived  these  dead  divinities. 
The  God  of  the  Gospel  was  now  adorned  by  the  Ger- 
mans with  lance  and  shield  like  the  old  Teutonic  god 
who  was  a  military  chief. 

"Christianity  in  Berlin  wears  helmet  and  riding  boots. 
God  at  this  moment  is  seeing  Himself  mobilized  the  same 
as  Otto,  Fritz  and  Franz,  in  order  to  punish  the  enemies 
of  His  chosen  people.  That  the  Lord  has  commanded, 
'Thou  shalt  not  kill,'  and  His  Son  has  said  to  the  world, 
'Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,'  no  longer  matters.  Chris- 
tianity, according  to  its  German  priests  of  all  creeds,  can 
only  influence  the  individual  betterment  of  mankind,  and 
should  not  mix  itself  in  affairs  of  state.  The  Prussian 
God  of  the  State  is  'the  old  German  God,'  the  lineal 
descendant  of  the  ferocious  Germanic  mythology,  a  mix- 
ture of  divinities  hungry  for  war. 

,  In  the  silence  of  the  avenue,  the  Russian  evoked  the 
ruddy  figures  of  the  implacable  gods,  that  were  going 
to  awake  that  night  upon  hearing  the  hum  of  arms  and 
smelling  the  acrid  odor  of  blood.  Thor,  the  brutal  god 
with  the  little  head,  was  stretching  his  biceps  and  clutch- 
ing the  hammer  that  crushed  cities.    Wotan  was  sharp- 


i62    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  \?OCALYPSF 

ening  his  lance  which  had  the  lightning  for  its  handle, 
the  thunder  for  its  blade.  Odin,  the  one-eyed,  was  gap- 
ing with  gluttony  on  the  mountain-tops,  awaiting  the 
dead  warriors  that  would  crowd  around  his  throne.  The 
dishevelled  Valkyries,  fat  and  perspiring,  were  beginning 
to  gallop  from  cloud  to  cloud,  hallooing  to  humanity 
that  they  might  carry  off  the  corpses  doubled  like  saddle 
bags,  over  the  haunches  of  their  flying  nags. 

"German  religiosity,"  continued  the  Russian,  "is  the 
disavowal  of  Christianity.  In  its  eyes,  men  are  no  longer 
equal  before  God.  Their  God  is  interested  only  in  the 
strong,  and  favors  them  with  his  support  so  that  they 
may  dare  anything.  Those  born  weak  must  either  sub- 
mit or  disappear.  Neither  are  nations  equal,  but  are 
divided  into  leaders  and  inferior  races  whose  destiny 
is  to  be  sifted  out  and  absorbed  by  their  superiors.  Since 
God  has  thus  ordained,  it  is  unnecessary  to  state  that 
the  grand  world-leader  is  Germany." 

Argensola  here  interrupted  to  observe  that  German 
pride  believed  itself  championed  not  only  by  God  but 
by  science,  too. 

"I  know  that,"  interposed  the  Russian  without  letting 
him  finish — "generalization,  inequality,  selection,  the 
struggle  for  life,  and  all  that.  .  .  .  The  Germans,  so 
conceited  about  their  special  worth,  erect  upon  distant 
ground  their  intellectual  monuments,  borrowing  of  the 
foreigner  their  foundation  material  whenever  they  un- 
dertake a  new  line  of  work.  A  Frenchman  and  an  Eng- 
lishman, Gobineau  and  Chamberlain,  have  given  them  the 
arguments  with  which  to  defend  the  superiority  of  Ihcit 
race.  With  the  rubbish  left  over  from  Darwin  and 
Spencer,  their  old  Haeckel  has  built  up  his  doctrine  of 
'Monism"  which,  applied  to  politics,  scientifically  conse- 
crates Prussian  pride  and  recognizes  its  right  to  rule  the 
world  by  force." 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     163 

"No,  a  thousand  times  no!"  he  exclaimed  after  a 
brief  silence.  "The  struggle  for  existence  with  its  pro- 
cession of  cruelties  may  be  true  among  the  lower  spe- 
cies, but  it  shoHid  not  be  true  among  human  creatures. 
We  are  rational  beings  and  ought  to  free  ourselves  from 
the  fatality  of  environment,  moulding  it  to  our  conven- 
ience. The  animal  does  not  know  law,  justice  or  compas- 
sion; he  lives  enslaved  in  the  obscurity  of  his  instincts. 
We  think,  and  thought  signifies  liberty.  Force  does  not 
necessarily  have  to  be  cruel ;  it  is  strongest  when  it  does 
not  take  advantage  of  its  power,  and  is  kindly.  All 
have  a  right  to  the  life  into  which  they  are  born,  and 
since  among  individuals  there  exist  the  haughty  and 
the  humble,  the  mighty  and  the  weak,  so  should  exist 
nations,  large  and  small,  old  and  young.  The  end  of  our 
existence  is  not  combat  nor  killing  in  order  that  others 
may  afterwards  kill  us,  and,  perhaps,  be  killed  them- 
selves. Civilized  peoples  ought  unanimously  to  adopt 
the  idea  of  southern  Europe,  striving  for  the  most  peace- 
ful and  sweetest  form  of  life  possible." 

A  cruel  smile  played  over  the  Russian's  beard. 

"But  there  exists  that  Kultur,  diametrically  opposed 
to  civilization,  which  the  Germans  wish  to  palm  off  upon 
us.  Civilization  is  refinement  of  spirit,  respect  of  one's 
neighbor,  tolerance  of  foreign  opinion,  courtesy  of  man- 
ner. Kultur  is  the  action  of  a  State  that  organizes  and 
assimilates  individuals  and  communities  in  order  to  util- 
ize them  for  its  own  ends ;  and  these  ends  consist  mainly 
in  placing  The  State'  above  other  states,  overwhelming 
them  with  their  grandeur — or  what  is  the  same  thing — 
with  their  haughty  and  violent  pride." 

By  this  time,  the  three  had  reached  the  place  de  I'Etoile. 
The  dark  outline  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  stood  forth 
clearly  in  the  starry  expanse.  The  avenues  extended  in 
all  directions,  a  double  file  of  lights.    Those  around  the 


i64    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPl-3i: 

monument  illuminated  its  gigantic  bases  and  the  feet  of 
the  sculptured  groups.  Further  up,  the  vaulted  spaces 
were  so  locked  in  shadow  that  they  had  the  black  den- 
sity of  ebony. 

Upon  passing  under  the  Arch,  which  greatly  inten- 
sified the  echo  of  their  footsteps,  they  came  to  a  stand 
still.  The  night  breeze  had  a  wintry  chill  as  it  whistled 
past,  and  the  curved  masses  seemed  melting  into  the  dif- 
fused blue  of  space.  Instinctively  the  three  turned  to 
glance  back  at  the  Champs  Elysees.  They  saw  only  a 
river  of  shadow  on  which  were  floating  rosaries  of  red 
stars  among  the  two  long,  black  scarfs  formed  by  the 
buildings.  But  they  were  so  well  acquainted  with  this 
panorama  that  in  imagination  they  mentally  saw  the 
majestic  sweep  of  the  avenue,  the  double  row  of  palaces, 
the  place  de  la  Concorde  in  the  background  with  the 
Egyptian  obelisk,  and  the  trees  of  the  Tuileries. 

"How  beautiful  it  is!"  exclaimed  Tchernoff  who  was 
seeing  something  beyond  the  shadows.  "An  entire  civil- 
ization, loving  peace  and  pleasure,  has  passed  through 
here." 

A  memory  greatly  affected  the  Russian.  Many  an 
afternoon,  after  lunch,  he  had  met  in  this  very  spot  a 
robust  man,  stocky,  with  reddish  beard  and  kindly  eyes 
— a  man  who  loked  like  a  giant  who  had  just  stopped 
growing.  He  was  always  accompanied  by  a  dog.  It  was 
Jaures,  his  friend  Jaures,  who  before  going  to  the  senate 
was  accustomed  to  taking  a  walk  toward  the  Arch  from 
his  home  in  Passy. 

"He  liked  to  come  just  where  we  are  now !  He  loved 
to  look  at  the  avenues,  the  distant  gardens,  all  of  Paris 
which  can  be  seen  from  this  height;  and  filled  with  ad- 
miration, he  would  often  say  to  me,  'This  is  magnificent 
— one  of  the  most  beautiful  perspectives  that  can  be 
found  in  the  entire  world.'  .  .  .  Poor  Jaures  I" 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     165 

Through  association  of  ideas,  the  Russian  evoked  the 
image  of  his  compatriot,  Michael  Bakounine,  another 
revolutionist,  the  father  of  anarchy,  weeping  with  emo- 
tion at  a  concert  after  hearing  the  symphony  with  Bee- 
thoven chorals  directed  by  a  young  friend  of  his,  named 
Richard  Wagner.  "When  our  revolution  comes,"  he 
cried,  clasping  the  hand  of  the  master,  "whatever  else 
may  perish,  this  must  be  saved  at  any  cost!" 

Tchemoff  roused  himself  from  his  reveries  to  look 
around  him  and  say  with  sadness : 

"They  have  passed  through  here !" 

Every  time  that  he  walked  through  the  Arch,  the 
same  vision  would  spring  up  in  his  mind.  They  were 
thousands  of  helmets  glistening  in  the  sun,  thousands 
of  heavy  boots  lifted  with  mechanical  rigidity  at  the 
same  time;  horns,  fifes,  drums  large  and  small,  clash- 
ing against  the  majestic  silence  of  these  stones — the  war- 
like march  from  Lohengrin  sounding  in  the  deserted 
avenues  before  the  closed  houses. 

He,  who  was  a  foreigner,  always  felt  attracted  by 
the  spell  exerted  by  venerable  buildings  guarding  the 
glory  of  a  bygone  day.  He  did  not  wish  to  know  who 
had  erected  it.  As  soon  as  its  pride  is  flattered,  man- 
kind tries  immediately  to  solidify  it.  Then  Humanity 
intervenes  with  a  broader  vision  that  changes  the  original 
significance  of  the  work,  enlarges  it  and  strips  it  of  its 
first  egotistical  import.  The  Greek  statues,  models  of 
the  highest  beauty,  had  been  originally  mere  images 
of  the  temple,  donated  by  the  piety  of  the  devotees  of 
those  times.  Upon  evoking  Roman  grandeur,  everybody 
sees  in  imagination  the  enormous  Coliseum,  circle  of 
butcheries,  or  the  arches  erected  to  the  glory  of  the 
inept  Caesars.  The  representative  works  of  nations  have 
two  significations — the  interior  or  immediate  one  which 
their  creators  gave  them,  and  the  exterior  or  universal 


i66    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

interest,  the  symbolic  value  which  the  centuries  have 
given  them. 

"This  Arch,"  continued  Tchernoff,  "is  French  within, 
with  its  names  of  battles  and  generals  open  to  criticism. 
On  the  outside,  it  is  the  monument  of  the  people  who 
carried  through  the  greatest  revolution  for  liberty  ever 
known.  The  glorification  of  man  is  there  below  in  the 
column  of  the  place  Vendome.  Here  there  is  nothing 
individual.  Its  builders  erected  it  to  the  memory  of  la 
Grande  Armce  and  that  Grand  Army  was  the  people 
in  arms  who  spread  revolution  throughout  Europe.  The 
artists,  great  inventors,  foresaw  the  true  significance 
of  this  work.  The  warriors  of  Rude  who  are  chanting 
the  Marseillaise  in  the  group  at  the  left  are  not  profes- 
sional soldiers,  they  are  armed  citizens,  marching  to 
work  out  their  sublime  and  violent  mission.  Their 
nudity  makes  them  appear  to  me  like  sansculottes  in  Gre- 
cian helmets.  .  .  .  Here  there  is  more  than  the  glory 
and  egoism  of  a  great  nation.  All  Europe  is  awake  to 
new  life,  thanks  to  these  Crusaders  of  Liberty.  .  .  .  The 
nations  call  to  mind  certain  images.  If  I  think  of  Greece, 
I  see  the  columns  of  the  Parthenon;  Rome,  Mistress  of 
the  World,  is  the  Coliseum  and  the  Arch  of  Trajan; 
and  revolutionary  France  is  the  Arc  de  Triomphe." 

The  Arch  was  even  more,  according  to  the  Russian. 
It  represented  a  great  historical  retaliation;  the  nations 
of  the  South,  called  the  Latin  races,  replying,  after 
many  centuries,  to  the  invasion  which  had  destroyed  the 
Roman  jurisdiction — the  Mediterranean  peoples  spread- 
ing themselves  as  conquerors  through  the  lands  of  the 
ancient  barbarians.  Retreating  immediately,  they  had 
swept  away  the  past  like  a  tidal  wave — the  great  surf 
depositing  all  that  it  contained.  Like  the  waters  of  cer- 
tain rivers  which  fructify  by  overflowing,  this  recession 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     167 

of  the  human  tide  had  left  the  soil  enriched  with  new 
and  generous  ideas. 

"If  they  should  return !"  added  Tchernoff  with  a  look 
of  uneasiness.  "If  they  again  should  tread  these  stones ! 
.  .  .  Before,  they  were  simple-minded  folk,  stunned  by 
their  rapid  good- fortune,  who  passed  through  here  like 
a  farmer  through  a  salon.  They  were  content  with 
money  for  the  pocket  and  two  provinces  which  should 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  their  victory.  .  .  .  But  now 
they  will  not  be  the  soldiers  only  who  march  against 
Paris.  At  the  tail  of  the  armies  come  the  maddened 
canteen-keepers,  the  Herr  Professors,  carrying  at  the 
side  the  little  keg  of  wine  with  the  powder  which  crazes 
the  barbarian,  the  wine  of  Ktiltur.  And  in  the  vans 
come  also  an  enormous  load  of  scientific  savagery,  a 
new  philosophy  which  glorifies  Force  as  a  principle 
and  sanctifier  of  everything,  denies  liberty,  suppresses 
the  weak  and  places  the  entire  world  under  the  charge 
of  a  minority  chosen  by  God,  just  because  it  possesses 
the  surest  and  most  rapid  methods  of  slaughter.  Hu- 
manity may  well  tremble  for  the  future  if  again  re- 
sounds under  this  archway  the  tramp  of  boots  follow- 
ing a  march  of  Wagner  or  any  other  Kapellmeister." 

They  left  the  Arch,  following  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo. 
Tchernoff  walking  along  in  dogged  silence  as  though  the 
vision  of  this  imaginary  procession  had  overwhelmed 
him.  Suddenly  he  continued  aloud  the  course  of  his  re- 
flections. 

"And  if  they  should  enter,  what  does  it  matter?  .  .  . 
On  that  account,  the  couse  of  Right  will  not  die.  It 
suffers  eclipses,  but  is  born  again;  it  may  be  ignored 
and  trampled  under  foot,  but  it  does  not,  therefore,  cease 
to  exist,  and  all  good  souls  recognize  it  as  the  only  rule 
of  life.  A  nation  of  madmen  wishes  to  place  Might  upon 
the  pedestal  that  others  have  raised  to  Right.     Useless 


i68    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

endeavor !  The  eternal  hope  of  mankind  will  ever  be  the 
increasing  power  of  more  liberty,  more  brotherliness, 
more  justice." 

The  Russian  appeared  to  calm  himself  with  this  state- 
ment. He  and  his  friends  spoke  of  the  spectacle  which 
Paris  was  presenting  in  its  preparation  for  war.  Tcher- 
noff  bemoaned  the  great  suffering  produced  by  the 
catastrophe,  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  domestic 
tragedies  that  were  unrolling  at  that  moment.  Appar- 
ently nothing  had  changed.  In  the  centre  of  the  city 
and  around  the  stations,  there  was  unusual  agitation, 
but  the  rest  of  the  immense  city  did  not  appear  affected  by 
the  great  overthrow  of  its  existence.  The  solitary  street 
was  presenting  its  usual  aspect,  the  breeze  was  gently 
moving  the  leaves.  A  solemn  peace  seemed  to  be  spread- 
ing itself  through  space.  The  houses  appeared  wrapped 
in  slumber,  but  behind  the  closed  windows  might  be 
surmised  the  insomnia  of  the  reddened  eyes,  the  sighs 
from  hearts  anguished  by  the  threatened  danger,  the 
tremulous  agility  of  the  hands  preparing  the  war  outfit, 
perhaps  the  last  loving  greetings  exchanged  without 
pleasure,  with  kisses  ending  in  sobs. 

Tchemoff  thought  of  his  neighbors,  the  husband  and 
wife  who  occupied  the  other  interior  apartment  behind 
the  studio.  She  was  no  longer  playing  the  piano.  The 
Russian  had  overheard  disputes,  the  banging  of  doors 
locked  with  violence,  and  the  footsteps  of  a  man  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  fleeing  from  a  woman's  cries.  There 
had  begun  to  develop  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  a 
regulation  drama — a  repetition  of  hundreds  of  others,  all 
taking  place  at  the  same  time. 

"She  is  a  German,"  volunteered  the  Russian.  "Our 
concierge  has  ferreted  out  her  nationality.  He  must  have 
gone  by  this  time  to  join  his  regiment.  Last  night  I  could 
hardly  sleep.    I  heard  the  lamentations  through  the  thin 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     169 

wall  partition,  the  steady,  desperate  weeping  of  an  aban- 
doned child,  and  the  voice  of  a  man  who  was  \'ainly 
trying  to  quiet  her !  .  .  .  Ah,  what  a  rain  of  sorrows  is 
now  falling  upon  the  world !" 

That  same  evening,  on  leaving  the  house,  he  had  met 
her  by  her  door.  She  appeared  like  another  woman,  with 
an  old  look  as  though  in  these  agonizing  hours  she  had 
been  suffering  for  fifteen  years.  In  vain  the  kindly 
Tchernoff  had  tried  to  cheer  her  up,  urging  her  to  ac- 
cept quietly  her  husband's  absence  so  as  not  to  harm 
the  little  one  who  was  coming. 

"For  the  unhappy  creature  is  going  to  be  a  mother," 
he  said  sadly.  "She  hides  her  condition  with  a  certain 
modesty,  but  from  my  window,  I  have  often  seen  her 
making  the  dainty  layette." 

The  woman  had  listened  to  him  as  though  she  did  not 
understand.  Words  were  useless  before  her  despera- 
tion. She  could  only  sob  as  though  talking  to  herself, 
"I  am  a  German.  .  .  .  He  has  gone;  he  has  to  go 
away.  .  .  .  Alone!  .  .  .  Alone  forever!"  .  .  . 

"She  is  thinking  all  the  time  of  her  nationality  which 
is  separating  her  from  her  husband;  she  is  thinking  of 
the  concentration  camp  to  which  they  will  take  her  with 
her  compatriots.  She  is  fearful  of  being  abandoned  in  the 
enemy's  country  obliged  to  defend  itself  against  the  attack 
of  her  own  country.  .  .  .  And  all  this  when  she  is  about 
to  become  a  mother.     What  miseries!     What  agonies!" 

The  three  reached  the  rue  de  la  Pompe  and  on  enter- 
ing the  house,  Tchernoff  began  to  take  leave  of  his  com- 
panions in  order  to  climb  the  service  stairs ;  but  Des- 
noyers  wished  to  prolong  the  conversation.  He  dreaded 
being  alone  with  his  friend,  still  chagrined  over  the  eve- 
ning's events.  The  conversation  with  the  Russian  inter- 
ested him,  so  they  all  went  up  in  the  elevator  together. 
Argensola  suggested  that  this  would  be  a  good  oppor- 


170    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

tunity  to  uncork  one  of  the  many  bottles  which  he 
was  keeping  in  the  kitchen.  Tchernoff  could  go  home 
through  the  studio  door  that  opened  on  the  stairway. 

The  great  window  had  its  glass  doors  wide  open;  the 
transoms  on  the  patio  side  were  also  open ;  a  breeze  kept 
the  curtains  swaying,  moving,  too,  the  old  lanterns, 
moth-eaten  flags  and  other  adornments  of  the  romantic 
studio.  They  seated  themselves  around  the  table,  near 
a  window  some  distance  from  the  light  which  was  illu- 
minating the  other  end  of  the  big  room.  They  were  in 
the  shadow,  with  their  backs  to  the  interior  court.  Oppo- 
site them  were  tiled  roofs  and  an  enormous  rectangle 
of  blue  shadow,  perforated  by  the  sharp-pointed  stars. 
The  city  lights  were  coloring  the  shadowy  space  with 
a  bloody  reflection. 

Tchernoff  drank  two  glasses,  testifying  to  the  excel- 
lence of  the  liquid  by  smacking  his  lips.  The  three  were 
silent  with  the  wondering  and  thoughtful  silence  which 
the  grandeur  of  the  night  imposes.  Their  eyes  were 
glancing  from  star  to  star,  grouping  them  in  fanciful 
lines,  forming  them  into  triangles  or  squares  of  vary- 
ing irregularity.  At  times,  the  twinkling  radiance  of  a 
heavenly  body  appeared  to  broaden  the  rays  of  light,  al- 
most hypnotizing  them. 

The  Russian,  without  coming  out  of  his  revery,  availed 
himself  of  another  glass.  Then  he  smiled  with  cruel 
irony,  his  bearded  face  taking  on  the  semblance  of  a 
tragic  mask  peeping  between  the  curtains  of  the  night. 

"I  wonder  what  those  men  up  there  are  thinking!"  he 
muttered.  "I  wonder  if  any  star  knows  that  Bismarck 
ever  existed !  .  .  .  I  wonder  if  the  planets  are  aware  of 
the  divine  mission  of  the  German  nation !" 

And  he  continued  laughing. 

Some  far-away  and  uncertain  noise  disturbed  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  slipping  through  some  of  the  t'hinks 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     171 

that  cut  the  immense  plain  of  roofs.  The  three  turned 
their  heads  so  as  to  hear  better.  .  .  .  The  sound  of  voices 
cut  through  the  thick  silence  of  night — a  masculine 
chorus  chanting  a  hymn,  simple,  monotonous  and  solemn. 
They  guessed  at  what  it  must  be,  although  they  could 
not  hear  very  well.  Various  single  notes  floating  with 
greater  intensity  on  the  night  wind,  enabled  Argensola 
to  piece  together  the  short  song,  ending  in  a  melodious, 
triumphant  yell — a  true  war  song: 

C'est  I'Alsace  et  la  Lorraine, 
Cest  I'Alsace  qu'il  nous  faut, 
Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh. 

A  new  band  of  men  was  going  away  through  the  streets 
below,  toward  the  railway  station,  the  gateway  of  the 
war.  They  must  be  from  the  outlying  districts,  per- 
haps from  the  country,  and  passing  through  silence- 
wrapped  Paris,  they  felt  like  singing  of  the  great  na- 
tional hope,  that  those  who  were  watching  behind  the 
dark  facades  might  feel  comforted,  knowing  that  they 
were  not  alone. 

"Just  as  it  is  in  the  opera,"  said  Julio  listening  to  the 
last  notes  of  the  invisible  chorus  dying  away  into  the 
night. 

Tchernoff  continued  drinking,  but  with  a  distracted  air, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  red  cloud  that  floated  over  the 
roofs. 

The  two  friends  conjectured  his  mental  labor  from 
his  concentrated  look,  and  the  low  exclamations  which 
were  escaping  him  like  the  echoes  of  an  interior  mono- 
logue. Suddenly  he  leaped  from  thought  to  word  with- 
out any  forewarning,  continuing  aloud  the  course  of  his 
reasoning. 

.  .  ."And  when  the  sun  arises  in  a  few  hours,  the 
worl<l  will  see  coursing  through  its  fields  the  four  horse- 


172    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

men,  enemies  of  mankind.  .  .  .  Already  their  wild  steeds 
are  pawing  the  ground  with  impatience;  already  the 
ill-omened  riders  have  come  together  and  are  exchang- 
ing the  last  words  before  leaping  into  the  saddle." 

"What  horseman  are  these?"  asked  Argensola. 

"Those  which  go  before  the  Beast." 

The  two  friends  thought  this  reply  as  unintelligible  as 
the  preceding  words.  Desnoyers  again  said  mentally, 
"He  is  drunk,"  but  his  curiosity  forced  him  to  ask, 
"What  beast  is  that  ?" 

"That  of  the  Apocalypse." 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  but  the  Russian's  terseness 
of  speech  did  not  last  long.  He  felt  the  necessity  of 
expressing  his  enthusiasm  for  the  dreamer  on  the  island 
rock  of  Patmos.  The  poet  of  great  and  mystic  vision 
was  exerting,  across  two  thousand  years,  his  influence 
over  this  mysterious  revolutionary,  tucked  away  on  the 
top  floor  of  a  house  in  Paris.  John  had  foreseen  it  all. 
His  visions,  unintelligible  to  the  masses,  nevertheless  held 
within  them  the  mystery  of  great  human  events. 

Tchemoff  described  the  Apocalyptic  beast  rising  from 
the  depths  of  the  sea.  He  was  like  a  leopard,  his  feet 
like  those  of  a  bear,  his  mouth  like  the  snout  of  a  fion. 
He  had  seven  heads  and  ten  horns.  And  upon  the 
horns  were  ten  crowns,  and  upon  each  of  his  heads  the 
name  of  a  blasphemy.  The  evangelist  did  not  say  just 
what  these  blasphemies  were,  perhaps  they  differed  ac- 
cording to  the  epochs,  modified  every  thousand  years 
when  the  beast  made  a  new  apparition.  The  Russian 
seemed  to  be  reading  those  that  were  flaming  on  the 
heads  of  the  monster — blasphemies  against  humanity, 
against  justice,  against  all  that  makes  life  sweet  and 
bearable.  "Might  is  superior  to  Right !"  .  .  .  "The  weak 
should  not  exist."  .  .  .  "Be  harsh  in  order  to  be  great." 
.  .  .  And  the  Beast  in  all  its  hideousness  was  attempting 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     173 

to  govern  the  world  and  make  mankind  render  him  hom- 
age! 

"But  the  four  horsemen  ?"  persisted  Desnoyers. 

The  four  horsemen  were  preceding  the  appearance  of 
the  monster  in  John's  vision. 

The  seven  seals  of  the  book  of  mystery  were  broken 
by  the  Lamb  in  the  presence  of  the  great  throne  where 
was  seated  one  who  shone  like  jasper.  The  rainbow 
round  about  the  throne  was  in  sight  like  unto  an  emer- 
ald. Twenty-four  thrones  were  in  a  semicircle  around 
the  great  throne,  and  upon  them  twenty-four  elders  with 
white  robes  and  crowns  of  gold.  Four  enormous  ani- 
mals, covered  with  eyes  and  each  having  six  wings, 
seemed  to  be  guarding  the  throne.  The  sounding  of 
trumpets  was  greeting  the  breaking  of  the  first  seal. 

"Come  and  see,"  cried  one  of  the  beasts  in  a  sten- 
torian tone  to  the  vision-seeing  poet.  .  .  .  And  the  first 
horseman  appeared  on  a  white  horse.  In  his  hand  he 
carried  a  bow,  and  a  crown  was  given  unto  him.  He 
was  Conquest,  according  to  some,  the  Plague  accord- 
ing to  others.  He  might  be  both  things  at  the  same  time. 
He  wore  a  crown,  and  that  was  enough  for  Tchernoff. 

"Come  forth,"  shouted  the  second  animal,  removing 
his  thousand  eyes.  And  from  the  broken  seal  leaped 
a  flame-colored  steed.  His  rider  brandished  over  his 
head  an  enormous  sword.  He  was  War.  Peace  fled 
from  the  world  before  his  furious  gallop ;  humanity  was 
going  to  be  exterminated. 

And  when  the  third  seal  was  broken,  another  of  the 
winged  animals  bellowed  like  a  thunder  clap,  "Come 
and  see !"  And  John  saw  a  black  horse.  He  who 
mounted  it  held  in  his  hand  a  scale  in  order  to  weigh 
the  maintenance  of  mankind.    He  was  Famine. 

The  fourth  animal  saluted  the  breaking  of  the  fourth 
seal  with  a  great  roaring — "Come  and  see !"    And  there 


174    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

appeared  a  pale-colored  horse.  His  rider  was  called 
Death,  and  power  was  given  him  to  destroy  with  the 
sword  and  with  hunger  and  with  death,  and  with  the 
beasts  of  the  earth. 

The  four  horsemen  were  beginning  their  mad,  deso- 
lating course  over  the  heads  of  terrified  humanity. 

Tchernoff  was  describing  the  four  scourges  of  the 
earth  exactly  as  though  he  were  seing  them.  The  horse- 
man on  the  white  horse  was  clad  in  a  showy  and  barbar- 
ous attire.  His  Oriental  countenance  was  contracted 
with  hatred  as  if  smelling  out  his  victims.  While  his 
horse  continued  galloping,  he  was  bending  his  bow  in 
order  to  spread  pestilence  abroad.  At  his  back  swung 
the  brass  quiver  filled  with  poisoned  arrows,  containing 
the  germs  of  all  diseases — ^those  of  private  hfe  as  well 
as  those  which  envenom  the  wounded  soldier  on  the  bat- 
tlefield. 

The  second  horseman  on  the  red  steed  was  waving 
the  enormous,  two-edged  sword  over  his  hair  bristling 
with  the  swiftness  of  his  course.  He  was  young,  but 
the  fierce  scowl  and  the  scornful  mouth  gave  him  a 
look  of  implacable  ferocity.  His  garments,  blown  open 
by  the  motion  of  his  wild  race,  disclosed  the  form  of  a 
muscular  athlete. 

Bald,  old  and  horribly  skinny  was  the  third  horse- 
man bouncing  up  and  down  on  the  rawboned  back  of 
his  black  steed.  His  shrunken  legs  clanked  against  the 
thin  flanks  of  the  lean  beast.  In  one  withered  hand  he 
was  holding  the  scales,  symbol  of  the  scarcity  of  food 
that  was  going  to  become  as  valuable  as  gold. 

The  knees  of  the  fourth  horseman,  sharp  as  spurs, 
were  pricking  the  ribs  of  the  pale  horse.  His  parchment- 
like skin  betrayed  the  lines  and  hollows  of  his  skeleton. 
The  front  of  his  skull-like  face  was  twisted  with  the 
sardonic  laugh  of  destruction.    His  cane-like  arms  were 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     175 

whirling   aJoft    a    gigantic    sickle.      From   his    angular 
shoulders  was  hanging  a  ragged,  filthy  shroud. 

And  the  furious  cavalcade  was  passing  like  a  hurri- 
cane  over  the  immense  assemblage  of  human  beings.  The 
heavens  showed  above  their  heads,  a  livid,  dark-edged 
cloud  from  the  west.  Horrible  monsters  and  deformi- 
ties were  swarming  in  spirals  above  the  furious  horde, 
like  a  repulsive  escort.  Poor  Humanity,  crazed  with 
fear,  was  fleeing  in  all  directions  on  hearing  the  thun- 
dering pace  of  the  Plague,  War,  Hunger  and  Death. 
Men  and  women,  young  and  old,  were  knocking  each 
other  down  and  falling  to  the  ground  overwhelmed  by 
terror,  astonishment  and  desperation.  And  the  white 
horse,  the  red,  the  black  and  the  pale,  were  crushing  all 
with  their  relentless,  iron  tread — the  athletic  man  was 
hearing  the  crashing  of  his  broken  ribs,  the  nursing  babe 
was  writhing  at  its  mother's  breast,  and  the  aged  and 
feeble  were  closing  their  eyes  forever  with  a  childlike 
sob. 

"God  is  asleep,  forgetting  the  world,"  continued  the 
Russian.  "It  will  be  a  long  time  before  he  awakes, 
and  while  he  sleeps  the  four  feudal  horsemen  of  the 
Beast  will  course  through  the  land  as  its  only  lords." 

Tchernoff  was  overpowered  by  the  intensity  of  his 
dramatic  vision.  Springing  from  his  seat,  he  paced  up 
and  down  with  great  strides ;  but  his  picture  of  the  four- 
fold catastrophe  revealed  by  the  gloomy  poet's  tranqr 
seemed  to  him  very  weak  indeed.  A  great  painter  ha^ 
given  corporeal  form  to  these  terrible  dreams. 

'*I  have  a  book,"  he  murmured,  "a  rare  book.**  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  he  left  the  studio  and  went  to  his  own 
quarters.  He  wanted  to  bring  the  book  to  show  to  his 
friends.  Argensola  accompanied  him,  and  they  returned 
in  a  few  minutes  with  the  volume,  leaving  the  doors  open 
behind  them,  so  as  to  make  a  stronger  current  of  air 


176    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

among  the  hollows  of  the  fagades  and  the  interior  patio. 

Tchemoff  placed  his  precious  book  under  the  light.  It 
was  a  volume  printed  in  15 ii,  with  Latin  text  and  en- 
gravings. Desnoyers  read  the  title,  "The  Apocalypse 
Illustrated."  The  engravings  were  by  Albert  Diirer,  a 
youthful  effort,  when  the  master  was  only  twenty-seven 
years  old.  The  three  were  fascinated  by  the  picture 
portraying  the  wild  career  of  the  Apocalyptic  horsemen. 
The  quadruple  scourge,  on  fantastic  mounts,  seemed  to 
be  precipitating  itself  with  a  realistic  sweep,  crushing 
panic-stricken  humanity. 

Suddenly  something  happened  which  startled  the  three 
men*  from  their  contemplative  admiration — something 
unusual,  indefinable,  a  dreadful  sound  which  seemed  to 
enter  directly  into  their  brains  without  passing  through 
their  ears — a  clutch  at  the  heart.  Instinctively  they  knew 
that  something  very  grave  had  just  happened. 

They  stared  at  each  other  silently  for  a  few  intermin- 
able seconds. 

Through  the  open  door,  a  cry  of  alarm  came  up  from 
the  patio. 

With  a  common  impulse,  the  three  ran  to  the  interior 
window,  but  before  reaching  them,  the  Russian  had  a 
presentiment. 

"My  neighbor !  ...  It  must  be  my  neighbor.  Perhaps 
she  has  killed  herself!" 

Looking  down,  they  could  see  lights  below,  people 
moving  around  a  form  stretched  out  on  the  tiled  floor. 
The  alarm  had  instantly  filled  all  the  court  windows,  for 
it  was  a  sleepless  night — a  night  of  nervous  apprehension 
when  everyone  was  keeping  a  sad  vigil. 

"She  has  killed  herself,"  said  a  voice  which  seemed 
to  come  up  from  a  well.  "The  German  woman  has 
committed  suicide." 


IN  WHICH  APPEAR  FOUR  HORSEMEN     177 

The  explanation  of  the  concierge  leaped  from  window 
to  window  up  to  the  top  floor. 

The  Russian  was  shaking  his  head  with  a  fatalistic 
expression.  The  unhappy  woman  had  not  taken  the 
death-leap  of  her  own  accord.  Someone  had  intensified 
her  desperation,  someone  had  pushed  her.  .  .  .  The 
horsemen !  The  four  horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse !  .  .  . 
Already  they  were  in  the  saddle !  Already  they  were  be- 
ginning their  merciless  gallop  of  destruction ! 

The  blind  forces  of  evil  were  about  to  be  let  loose 
throughout  the  world. 

The  agony  of  humanity,  under  the  brutal  sweep  of 
the  four  horsemen,  was  already  begtin! 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

WHAT  DON   MARCELO   ENVIED 

Upon  being  convinced  that  war  really  was  inevitable, 
the  elder  Desnoyers  was  filled  with  amazement.  Hu- 
manity had  gone  crazy.  Was  it  possible  that  war  could 
happen  in  these  days  of  so  many  railroads,  so  many 
merchant  marines,  so  many  inventions,  so  much  activ- 
ity developed  above  and  below  the  earth?  .  .  .  The  na- 
tions would  ruin  themselves  forever.  They  were  now 
accustomed  to  luxuries  and  necessities  unknown  a  cen- 
tury ago.  Capital  was  master  of  the  world,  and  war 
was  going  to  wipe  it  out.  In  its  turn,  war  would  be 
wiped  out  in  a  few  months'  time  through  lack  of  funds 
to  sustain  it.  His  soul  of  a  business  man  revolted  be- 
fore the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  millions  that  this 
foolhardy  event  was  going  to  convert  into  smoke  and 
slaughter. 

As  his  indignation  had  to  fix  upon  something  close 
at  hand,  he  made  his  own  countrymen  responsible  for 
this  insanity.  Too  much  talk  about  la  revanche!  The 
very  idea  of  worrying  for  forty-four  years  over  the  two 
lost  provinces  when  the  nation  was  mistress  of  enormous 
and  undeveloped  lands  in  other  countries!  .  .  .  Now 
they  were  going  to  pay  the  penalty  for  such  exasperat- 
ing and  clamorous  foolishness. 

For  him  war  meant  disaster  writ  large.  He  had  no 
faith  in  his  country.  France's  day  had  passed.  Now 
the  victors  were  of  the  Northern  peoples,  and  especially 

i8i 


l82    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

that  Germany  which  he  had  seen  so  close,  admiring  with 
a  certain  terror  its  discipline  and  its  rigorous  organiza- 
tion. The  former  working-man  felt  the  conservative  and 
selfish  instinct  of  all  those  who  have  amassed  millions. 
He  scorned  political  ideals,  but  through  class  interest 
he  had  of  late  years  accepted  the  declarations  against 
the  scandals  of  the  government.  What  could  a  corrupt 
and  disorganized  Republic  do  against  the  solidest  and 
strongest  empire  in  the  world?  .  .  . 

"We  are  going  to  our  deaths,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Worse  than  '70!  .  .  .  We  are  going  to  see  horrible 
things !" 

The  good  order  and  enthusiasm  with  which  the  French 
responded  to  their  country's  call  and  transformed  them- 
selves into  soldiers  were  most  astonishing  to  him.  This 
moral  shock  made  his  national  faith  begin  to  revive. 
The  great  majority  of  Frenchmen  were  good  after  all; 
the  nation  was  as  valiant  as  in  former  times.  Forty- 
four  years  of  suffering  and  alarm  had  developed  their 
old  bravery.  But  the  leaders?  Where  were  they  going 
to  get  leaders  to  march  to  victory?  .  .  . 

Many  others  were  asking  themselves  the  same  ques- 
tion. The  silence  of  the  democratic  government  was 
keeping  the  country  in  complete  ignorance  of  their  fu- 
ture commanders.  Everybody  saw  the  army  increasing 
from  hour  to  hour:  very  few  knew  the  generals.  One 
name  was  beginning  to  be  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
"Joffre  .  .  .  Joffre."  His  first  pictures  made  the  curi- 
ous crowds  struggle  to  get  a  glimpse  of  them.  Desnoyers 
studied  them  very  carefully.  "He  looks  like  a  very 
capable  person."  His  methodical  instincts  were  gratified 
by  the  grave  and  confident  look  of  the  general  of  the 
Republic.  Suddenly  he  felt  the  great  confidence  that 
efficient-looking  bank  directors  always  inspired  in  him. 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  183 

He  could  entrust  his  interests  to  this  gentleman,  sure, 
that  he  would  not  act  impulsively. 

Finally,  against  his  will,  Desnoyers  was  drawn  into 
the  whirlpool  of  enthusiasm  and  emotion.  Like  ever\-one 
around  him,  he  lived  minutes  that  were  hours,  and  hours 
that  were  years.  Events  kept  on  overlapping  each  other  ; 
within  a  week  the  world  seemed  to  have  made  up  for 
its  long  period  of  peace. 

The  old  man  fairly  lived  in  the  street,  attracted  by 
the  spectacle  of  the  multitude  of  civilians  saluting  the 
multitude  of  uniformed  men  departing  for  the  seat  of 
war. 

At  night  he  saw  the  processions  passing  through  the 
boulevards.  The  tricolored  flag  was  fluttering  its  colors 
under  the  electric  lights.  The  cafes  were  overflowing 
with  people,  sending  forth  from  doors  and  windows  the 
excited,  musical  notes  of  patriotic  songs.  Suddenly, 
amidst  applause  and  cheers,  the  crowd  would  make  an 
opening  in  the  street.  All  Europe  was  passing  here ;  all 
Europe — less  the  arrogant  enemy — and  was  saluting 
France  in  her  hour  of  danger  with  hearty  spontaneity. 
Flags  of  different  nations  were  filing  by,  of  all  tints  of 
the  rainbow,  and  behind  them  were  the  Russians  with 
bright  and  mystical  eyes;  the  English,  with  heads  un- 
covered, intoning  songs  of  religious  gravity;  the  Greeks 
and  Roumanians  of  aquiline  profile;  the  Scandinavians, 
white  and  red;  the  North  Americans,  with  the  noisiness 
of  a  somewhat  puerile  enthusiasm ;  the  Hebrews  without 
a  country,  friends  of  the  nation  of  socialistic  revolu- 
tions ;  the  Italians,  as  spirited  as  a  choir  of  heroic  tenors ; 
the  Spanish  and  South  Americans,  tireless  in  their  huz- 
zas. They  were  students  and  apprentices  who  were  com- 
pleting their  courses  in  the  schools  and  workshops,  and 
refugees  who,  like  shipwrecked  mariners,  had  sought 
shelter  on  the  hospitable  strand  of  Paris.    Their  cheers 


i84    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

had  no  special  significance,  but  they  were  all  moved  by 
their  desire  to  show  their  love  for  the  Republic.  And 
Desnoyers,  touched  by  the  sight,  felt  that  France  was  still 
of  some  account  in  the  world,  that  she  yet  exercised 
a  moral  force  among  the  nations,  and  that  her  joys  and 
sorrows  were  still  of  interest  to  humanity. 

"In  Berlin  and  Vienna,  too,"  he  said  to  himself,  "they 
must  also  be  cheering  enthusiastically  at  this  moment 
.  .  .  but  Germans  only,  no  others.  Assuredly  no  for- 
eigner is  joining  in  their  demonstrations." 

The  nation  of  the  Revolution,  legislator  of  the  rights 
of  mankind,  was  harvesting  the  gratitude  of  the  throngs, 
but  was  beginning  to  feel  a  certain  remorse  before  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  foreigners  who  were  offering  their 
blood  for  France.  Many  were  lamenting  that  the  gov- 
ernment should  delay  twenty  days,  until  after  they  had 
finished"  the  operations  of  mobilization,  in  admitting  the 
volunteers.  And  he,  a  Frenchman  born,  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, had  been  mistrusting  his  country!  .  .  . 

In  the  daytime  the  popular  current  was  running  toward 
the  Gore  de  I'Est.  Crowded  against  the  gratings  was 
a  surging  mass  of  humanity  stretching  its  tentacles 
through  the  nearby  streets.  The  station  that  was  acquir- 
ing the  importance  of  a  historic  spot  appeared  like  a 
narrow  timnel  through  which  a  great  human  river  was 
trying  to  flow  with  many  ripling  encounters  and  much 
heavy  pressure  against  its  banks.  A  large  part  of  France 
in  arms  was  coursing  through  this  exit  from  Paris  toward 
the  battlefields  at  the  frontier. 

Desnoyers  had  been  in  the  station  only  twice,  when 
going  and  coming  from  Germany.  Others  were  now  tak- 
ing the  same  road.  The  crowds  were  swarming  in  from 
the  environs  of  the  city  in  order  to  see  the  masses  of 
human  beings  in  geometric  bodies,  uniformly  clad,  dis- 
appearing within  the  entrance  with  flash  of  steel  and  the 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  185 

rhythm  of  clanking  metal.  The  crystal  archways  that 
were  glistening  in  the  sun  like  fiery  mouths  were  swal- 
lowing and  swallowing  people.  When  night  fell  the  pro- 
cessions were  still  coming  on,  by  light  of  the  electric 
lamps.  Through  the  iron  grills  were  passing  thousands 
and  thousands  of  draught  horses ;  men  with  their  breasts 
crossed  with  metal  and  bunches  of  horsehair  hanging 
from  their  helmets,  like  paladins  of  bygone  centuries; 
enormous  cases  that  were  serving  as  cages  for  the  aero- 
nautic condors;  strings  of  cannon,  long  and  narrow, 
painted  grey  and  protected  by  metal  screens,  more  like 
astronomical  instruments  than  mouths  of  death ;  masses 
and  masses  of  red  kepis  (military  caps)  moving  in 
marching  rhythm,  rows  and  rows  of  muskets,  some  black 
and  stark  like  reed  plantations,  others  ending  in  bayonets 
like  shining  spikes.  And  over  all  these  restless  fields 
of  seething  throngs,  the  flags  of  the  regiments  were 
fluttering  in  the  air  like  colored  birds ;  a  white  body,  a 
blue  wing,  or  a  red  one,  a  cravat  of  gold  on  the  neck, 
and  above,  the  metal  tip  pointing  toward  the  clouds. 

Don  Marcelo  would  return  home  from  these  send-offs 
vibrating  with  nervous  fatigue,  as  one  who  had  just  par- 
ticipated in  a  scene  of  racking  emotion.  In  spite  of  his 
tenacious  character  which  always  stood  out  against  ad- 
mitting a  mistake,  the  old  man  began  to  feel  ashamed  of 
his  former  doubts.  The  nation  was  quivering  with  life ; 
France  was  a  grand  nation ;  appearances  had  deceived 
him  as  well  as  many  others.  Perhaps  the  most  of  his 
countrymen  were  of  a  light  and  flippant  character,  given 
to  excessive  interest  in  the  sensuous  side  of  life;  but 
when  danger  came  they  were  fulfilling  their  duty  s'mply, 
without  the  necessity  of  the  harsh  force  to  which  the 
iron-clad  organizations  were  submitting  their  people. 

On  leaving  home  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day 
of  the  mobilization  Desnoyers,  instead  of  betaking  him- 


i86     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

self  to  the  centre  of  the  city,  went  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion toward  the  rue  de  la  Pompe.  Some  imprudent 
words  droped  by  Chichi,  and  the  uneasy  looks  of  his 
wife  and  sister-in-law  made  him  suspect  that  Julio  had 
returned  from  his  trip.  He  felt  the  necessity  of  seeing 
at  least  the  outside  of  the  studio  windows,  as  if  they 
might  give  him  news.  And  in  order  to  justify  a  trip 
so  at  variance  with  his  policy  of  ignoring  his  son,  he 
remembered  that  the  carpenter  lived  in  the  same  street. 

"I  must  hunt  up  Robert.  He  promised  a  week  ago 
that  he  would  come  here." 

This  Robert  was  a  husky  young  fellow  who,  to  use 
his  own  words,  was  "emancipated  from  boss  tyranny," 
and  was  working  independently  in  his  own  home.  A 
tiny,  almost  subterranean,  room  was  serving  him  for 
dwelling  and  workshop.  A  woman  he  called  "my  affin- 
ity" was  looking  carefully  after  his  hearth  and  home, 
with  a  baby  boy  clinging  to  her  skirts.  Desnoyers  was 
accustomed  to  humor  Robert's  tirades  against  his  fellow 
citizens  because  the  man  had  always  humored  his  whim- 
seys  about  the  incessant  rearrangement  of  his  furniture. 
In  the  luxurious  apartment  in  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo 
the  carpenter  would  sing  La  Internacional  while  using 
hammer  and  saw,  and  his  employer  would  overlook  his 
audacity  of  speech  because  of  the  cheapness  of  his 
work. 

Upon  arriving  at  the  shop  he  found  the  man  with  cap 
over  one  ear,  broad  trousers  like  a  mameluke's  hobnailed 
boots  and  various  pennants  and  rosettes  fastened  to  the 
lapels  of  his  jacket. 

"You've  come  too  late,  Boss,"  he  said  cheerily.  "I  am 
just  going  to  close  the  factory.  The  Proprietor  has  been 
mobilized,  and  in  a  few  hours  will  join  his  regiment." 

And  he  pointed  to  a  written  paper  posted  on  the  door 
of  his  dwelling  like  the  printed  cards  on  all  establish- 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  187 

ments,  signifying  that  employer  and  employees  had 
obeyed  the  order  of  mobilization. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Desnoyers  that  his  carpenter 
might  become  a  soldier,  since  he  was  so  opposed  to  all 
kinds  of  authority.  He  hated  the  Hies,  the  Paris  police, 
with  whom  he  had,  more  than  once,  exchanged  fisticuffs 
and  clubbings.  Militarism  was  his  special  aversion.  In 
the  meetings  against  the  despotism  of  the  barracks  he 
had  always  been  one  of  the  noisiest  participants.  And 
was  this  revolutionary  fellow  going  to  war  naturally  and 
voluntarily?  .  .  . 

Robert  spoke  enthusiastically  of  his  regiment,  of  life 
among  comrades  with  Death  but  four  steps  away. 

"I  believe  in  my  ideas,  Boss,  the  same  as  before,"  he 
explained  as  though  guessing  the  other's  thought.  "But 
war  is  war  and  teaches  many  things — among  others  that 
Liberty  must  be  accompanied  with  order  and  authority. 
It  is  necessary  that  someone  direct  that  the  rest  may 
follow — willingly,  by  common  consent  .  .  .  but  they 
must  follow.  When  war  actually  comes  one  sees  things 
very  differently  from  when  living  at  home  doing  as  one 
pleases." 

The  night  that  they  assassinated  Jaures  he  howled  with 
rage,  announcing  that  the  following  morning  the  murder 
would  be  avenged.  He  had  hunted  up  his  associates  in 
the  district  in  order  to  inform  them  what  retaliation  was 
being  planned  against  the  malefactors.  But  war  was 
about  to  break  out.  There  was  something  in  the  air 
that  was  opposing  civil  strife,  that  was  placing  private 
grievances  in  momentary  abeyance,  concentrating  all 
minds  on  the  common  weal. 

"A  week  ago,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  was  an  anti-militarist ! 
How  far  away  that  seems  now — as  if  a  year  had  gone 
by !  ...  I  keep  thinking  as  before !  I  love  peace  and 
hate  war  like  all  my  comrades.     But  the  French  have 


i88    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

not  offended  anybody,  and  yet  they  threaten  us,  wish- 
ing to  enslave  us.  .  .  .  But  we  French  can  be  fierce, 
since  they  obHge  us  to  be,  and  in  order  to  defend  our- 
selves it  is  just  that  nobody  should  shirk,  that  all  should 
obey.  Discipline  does  not  quarrel  with  Revolution.  Re- 
member the  armies  of  the  first  Republic — all  citizens, 
Generals  as  well  as  soldiers,  but  Hoche,  Kleber  and  the 
others  were  rough-hewn,  unpolished  benefactors  who 
knew  how  to  command  and  exact  obedience." 

The  carpenter  was  well  read.  Besides  the  papers  and 
pamphlets  of  "the  Idea,"  he  had  also  read  on  stray 
sheets  the  views  of  Michelet  and  other  liberal  actors 
on  the  stage  of  history. 

"We  are  going  to  make  war  on  War,"  he  added.  "We 
are  going  to  fight  so  that  this  war  will  be  the  last." 

This  statement  did  not  seem  to  be  expressed  with 
sufficient  clearness,  so  he  recast  his  thought. 

"We  are  going  to  fight  for  the  future;  we  are  going 
to  die  in  order  that  our  grandchildren  may  not  have  to 
endure  a  similar  calamity.  If  the  enemy  triumphs,  the 
war-habit  will  triumph,  and  conquest  will  be  the  only 
means  of  growth.  First  they  will  overcome  Europe, 
then  the  rest  of  the  world.  Later  on,  those  who  have 
been  pillaged  will  rise  up  in  their  wrath.  More  wars! 
.  .  .  We  do  not  want  conquests.  We  desire  to  regain 
Alsace  and  Lorraine,  for  their  inhabitants  wish  to  return 
to  us  .  .  .  and  nothing  more.  We  shall  not  imitate  the 
enemy,  appropriating  territory  and  jeopardizing  the  peace 
of  the  world.  We  had  enough  of  that  with  Napoleon; 
we  must  not  repeat  that  experience.  We  are  going  to 
fight  for  our  immediate  security,  and  at  the  same  time  for 
the  security  of  the  world — for  the  life  of  the  weaker 
nations.  If  this  were  a  war  of  aggression,  of  mere 
vanity,  of  conquest,  then  we  Socialists  would  bethink 
ourselves  of  our  anti-militarism.    But  this  is  self-defense. 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  189 

and  the  government  has  not  been  at  fault.  Since  we 
are  attacked,  we  must  be  united  in  our  defensive." 

The  carpenter,  who  was  also  anti-clerical,  was  now 
showing  a  more  generous  tolerance,  an  amplitude  of 
ideas  that  embraced  all  mankind.  The  day  before  he  had 
met  at  the  administration  office  a  Reservist  who  was 
just  leaving  to  join  his  regiment.  At  a  glance  he  saw 
that  this  man  was  a  priest. 

"I  am  a  carpenter,"  he  had  said  to  him,  by  way  of  in- 
troduction, "and  you,  comrade,  are  working  in  the 
churches  ?" 

He  employed  this  figure  of  speech  in  order  that  the 
priest  might  not  suspect  him  of  anything  offensive.  The 
two  had  clasped  hands. 

"I  do  not  take  much  stock  in  the  clerical  cowl,"  Robert 
explained  to  Desnoyers.  "For  some  time  I  have  not  been 
on  friendly  terms  with  religion.  But  in  every  walk  of 
life  there  must  be  good  people,  and  the  good  people 
ought  to  understand  each  other  in  a  crisis  like  this. 
Don't  you  think  so.  Boss?" 

The  war  coincided  with  his  socialistic  tendencies.  Be- 
fore this,  when  speaking  of  future  revolution,  he  had 
felt  a  malign  pleasure  in  imagining  all  the  rich  deprived 
of  their  fortunes  and  having  to  work  in  order  to  exist. 
Now  he  was  equally  enthusiastic  at  the  thought  that  all 
Frenchmen  would  share  the  same  fate  without  class 
distinction. 

"All  with  knapsacks  on  their  backs  and  eating  at 
mess." 

And  he  was  even  extending  this  military  sobriety  to 
those  who  remained  behind  the  army.  War  was  going  to 
cause  great  scarcity  of  provisions,  and  all  would  have 
to  come  down  to  very  plain  fare. 

"You,  too,  Boss,  who  are  too  old  to  go  to  war — you. 


IQO    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

with  all  your  millions,  will  have  to  eat  the  same  as  I. 
.  .  .  Admit  that  it  is  a  beautiful  thing." 

Desnoyers  was  not  offended  by  the  malicious  satisfac- 
tion that  his  future  privations  seemed  to  inspire  in  the 
carpenter.  He  was  very  thoughtful.  A  man  of  his 
stamp,  an  enemy  of  existing  conditions,  who  had  no 
property  to  defend,  was  going  to  war — to  death,  per- 
haps— because  of  a  generous  and  distant  ideal,  in  order 
that  future  generations  might  never  know  the  actual 
horrors  of  war!  To  do  this,  he  was  not  hesitating  at 
the  sacrifice  of  his  former  cherished  beliefs,  all  that  he 
had  held  sacred  till  now.  .  .  .  And  he  who  belonged  to 
the  privileged  class,  who  possessed  so  many  tempting 
things,  requiring  defense,  had  given  himself  up  to  doubt 
and  criticism !  .  .  . 

Hours  after,  he  again  saw  the  carpenter,  near  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe.  He  was  one  of  a  group  of  workmen  look- 
ing much  as  he  did,  and  this  group  was  joining  others 
and  still  others  that  represented  every  social  class — well- 
dressed  citizens,  stylish  and  anaemic  young  men,  gradu- 
ate students  with  worn  jackets,  pale  faces  and  thick 
glasses,  and  youthful  priests  who  were  smiling  rather 
shamefacedly  as  though  they  had  been  caught  at  some 
ridiculous  escapade.  At  the  head  of  this  human  herd 
was  a  sergeant,  and,  as  a  rear  guard,  various  soldiers 
with  guns  on  their  shoulders.  Forward  march.  Reserv- 
ists! .  .  . 

And  a  musical  cry,  a  solemn  harmony  Hke  a  Greek 
chant,  menacing  and  monotonous,  surged  up  from  this 
mass  with  open  mouths,  swinging  arms,  and  legs  that 
were  opening  and  shutting  like  compasses. 

Robert  was  singing  the  martial  chorus  with  such  great 
energy  that  his  eyes  and  Gallic  moustachios  were  fairly 
trembling.  In  spite  of  his  corduroy  suit  and  his  bulging 
linen  hand  bag,  he  had  the  same  grand  and  heroic  aspect 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ExWIED  191 

as  the  figures  by  Rude  in  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  The 
"affinity"  and  the  boy  were  trudging  along  the  side- 
walk so  as  to  accompany  him  to  the  station.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  took  his  eyes  from  them  to  speak  with  a  com- 
panion in  the  line,  shaven  and  serious-looking,  undoubt- 
edly the  priest  whom  he  har^  met  the  day  before.  Now 
they  were  talking  confidentially,  intimately,  with  that 
brotherliness  which  contact  with  death  inspires  in  man- 
kind. 

The  millionaire  followed  the  carpenter  with  a  look 
of  respect,  immeasurably  increased  since  he  had  taken 
his  part  in  this  human  avalanche.  And  this  respect  had 
in  it  something  of  envy,  the  envy  that  springs  from  an 
uneasy  conscience. 

Whenever  Don  Marcelo  passed  a  bad  night,  suffering 
from  nightmare,  a  certain  terrible  thing — always  the 
same — would  torment  his  imagination.  Rarely  did  he 
dream  of  mortal  peril  to  his  family  or  self.  The  fright- 
ful vision  was  always  that  certain  notes  bearing  his  sig- 
nature were  presented  for  collection  which  he,  Marcelo 
Desnoyers,  the  man  always  faithful  to  his  bond,  with  a 
past  of  immaculate  probity,  was  not  able  to  pay.  Such 
a  possibility  made  him  tremble,  and  long  after  waking 
his  heart  would  be  oppressed  with  terror.  To  his  imagi- 
nation this  was  the  greatest  disgrace  that  a  man  could 
suffer. 

Nov/  that  war  was  overturning  his  existence  with  its 
agitations,  the  same  agonies  were  reappearing.  Com- 
pletely awake,  with  full  powers  of  reasoning,  he  was 
suffering  exactly  the  same  distress  as  when  in  his  hor- 
rible dreams  he  saw  his  dishonored  signature  on  a  pro- 
tested document. 

All  his  past  was  looming  up  before  his  eyes  with  such 
extraordinary  clearness  that  it  seemed  as  though  until 
then  his  mind  must  have  been  in  hopeless  confusion. 


192    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

The  threatened  land  of  France  was  his  native  country. 
Fifteen  centuries  of  history  had  been  working  for  him, 
in  order  that  his  opening  eyes  might  survey  progress  and 
comforts  that  his  ancestors  did  not  even  know.  Many 
generations  of  Desnoyers  had  prepared  for  his  advent 
into  life  by  struggling  with  the  land  and  defending  it 
that  he  might  be  born  into  a  free  family  and  fireside. 
.  .  .  And  when  his  turn  had  come  for  continuing  this 
effort,  when  his  time  had  arrived  in  the  rosary  of  genera- 
tions— he  had  fled  like  a  debtor  evading  payment!  .  .  . 
On  coming  into  his  fatherland  he  had  contracted  obliga- 
tions with  the  human  group  to  whom  he  owed  his  exist- 
ence. This  obligation  should  be  paid  with  his  arms,  with 
any  sacrifice  that  would  repel  danger  .  .  .  and  he  had 
eluded  the  acknowledgment  of  his  signature,  fleeing  his 
country  and  betraying  his  trust  to  his  forefathers !  Ah, 
miserable  coward !  The  material  success  of  his  life,  the 
riches  acquired  in  a  remote  country,  were  compara- 
tively of  no  importance.  There  are  failures  that  mil- 
lions cannot  blot  out.  The  uneasiness  of  his  conscience 
was  proving  it  now.  Proof,  too,  was  in  the  envy  and 
respect  inspired  by  this  poor  mechanic  marching  to  meet 
his  death  with  others  equally  humble,  all  kindled  with 
the  satisfaction  of  duty  fulfilled,  of  sacrifice  accepted. 
The  memory  of  Madariaga  came  to  his  memory, 
"Where  we  make  our  riches,  and  found  a  family — 
there  is  our  country." 

No,  the  statement  of  the  centaur  was  not  correct.  In 
normal  times,  perhaps.  Far  from  one's  native  land 
when  it  is  not  exposed  to  danger,  one  may  forget  it  for 
a  few  years.  But  he  was  living  now  in  France,  and 
France  was  being  obliged  to  defend  herself  against  en- 
emies wishing  to  overpower  her.  The  sight  of  all  her 
people  rising  en  masse  was  becoming  an  increasingly 
shameful  torture  for  Desnovers,  making  him  think  all 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  193 

the  time  of  what  he  should  have  done  in  his  youth,  of 
what  he  had  dodged. 

The  veterans  of  '70  were  passing  through  the  streets, 
with  the  green  and  black  ribbon  in  their  lapel,  souvenirs 
of  the  privations  of  the  Siege  of  Paris,  and  of  heroic  and 
disastrous  campaigns.  The  sight  of  these  men,  satis- 
fied with  their  past,  made  him  turn  pale.  Nobody  was 
recalling  his,  but  he  knew  it,  and  that  was  enough.  In 
vain  his  reason  would  try  to  lull  this  interior  tempest. 
.  .  .  Those  times  were  different ;  then  there  was  none  of 
the  present  unanimity;  the  Empire  was  unpopular.  .  . 
everything  was  lost.  .  .  .  But  the  recollection  of  a  cele- 
brated sentence  was  fixing  itself  in  his  mind  as  an  obses- 
sion— ^'France  still  remained !"  Many  had  thought  as  he 
did  in  his  youth,  but  they  had  not,  therefore,  evaded 
military  service.  They  had  stood  by  their  country  in 
a  last  and  desperate  resistance. 

Useless  was  his  excuse-making  reasoning.  Nobler 
thoughts  showed  him  the  fallacy  of  this  beating  around 
the  bush.  Explanations  and  demonstrations  are  unneces- 
sary to  the  understanding  of  patriotic  and  religious 
ideals ;  true  patriotism  does  not  need  them.  One's  coun- 
try ...  is  one's  country.  And  the  laboring  man,  skepti- 
cal and  jesting,  the  self-centred  farmer,  the  solitary  pas- 
tor, all  had  sprung  to  action  at  the  sound  of  this  con- 
juring word,  comprehending  it  instantly,  without  previ- 
ous instruction. 

"It  is  necessary  to  pay,"  Don  Marcelo  kept  repeating 
mentally.     "I  ought  to  pay  my  debt." 

As  in  his  dreams,  he  was  constantly  feeling  the  an- 
guish of  an  upright  and  desperate  man  who  wishes  to 
meet  his  obligations. 

Pay!  .  .  .  and  how?  It  was  now  very  late.  For  a 
moment  the  heroic  resolution  came  into  his  head  of  of- 
fering himself  as  a  volunteer,  of  marching  with  his  bag 


194    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

at  his  side  in  some  one  of  the  groups  of  future  com- 
batants, the  same  as  the  carpenter.  But  the  uselessness 
of  the  sacrifice  came  immediately  into  his  mind.  Of  what 
use  would  it  be?  .  .  .  He  looked  robust  and  was  well- 
preserved  for  his  age,  but  he  was  over  seventy,  and  only 
the  young  make  good  soldiers.  Combat  is  but  one  inci- 
dent in  the  struggle.  Equally  necessary  are  the  hard- 
ship and  self-denial  in  the  form  of  interminable  marches, 
extremes  of  temperature,  nights  in  the  open  air,  shovel- 
ing earth,  digging  trenches,  loading  carts,  suffering  hun- 
ger. .  .  .  No;  it  was  too  late.  He  could  not  even  leave 
an  illustrious  name  that  might  serve  as  an  example. 

Instinctively  he  glanced  behind.  He  was  not  alone  in 
the  world ;  he  had  a  son  who  could  assume  his  father's 
debt  .  .  .  but  that  hope  only  lasted  a  minute.  His  son 
was  not  French ;  he  belonged  to  another  people ;  half 
of  his  blood  was  from  another  source.  Besides,  how 
could  the  boy  be  expected  to  feel  as  he  did?  Would 
he  even  understand  if  his  father  should  explain  it  to  him? 
...  It  was  useless  to  expect  anything  from  this  lady- 
killing,  dancing  clown,  from  this  fellow  of  senseless 
bravado,  who  was  constantly  exposing  his  life  in  duels 
in  order  to  satisfy  a  silly  sense  of  honor. 

Oh,  the  meekness  of  the  bluff  Sefior  Desnoyers  after 
these  reflections!  .  .  .  His  family  felt  alarmed  at  seeing 
the  humility  and  gentleness  with  which  he  moved  around 
the  house.  The  two  men-servants  had  gone  to  join  their 
regiments,  and  to  them  the  most  surprising  result  of  the 
de^^ration  of  war  was  the  sudden  kindness  of  their 
master,  the  lavishness  of  his  farewell  gifts,  the  paternal 
care  with  which  he  supervised  their  preparations  for 
departure.  The  terrible  Don  Marcelo  embraced  them 
with  moist  eyes,  and  the  two  had  to  exert  themselves  to 
prevent  his  accompanying  them  to  the  station. 

Outside  of  his  home  he  was  slipping  about  humbly 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  195 

as  though  mutely  asking  pardon  of  the  many  people 
around  him.  To  him  they  all  appeared  his  superiors. 
It  was  a  period  of  economic  crisis;  for  the  time  being, 
the  rich  also  were  experiencing  what  it  was  to  be  poor 
and  worried;  the  banks  had  suspended  operations  and 
were  paying  only  a  small  part  of  their  deposits.  For 
some  weeks  the  millionaire  was  deprived  of  his  wealth, 
and  felt  restless  before  the  uncertain  future.  How  long 
would  it  be  before  they  could  send  him  money  from 
South  America?  Was  war  going  to  take  away  fortunes 
as  well  as  lives  ?  .  .  .  And  yet  Desnoyers  had  never  ap- 
preciated money  less,  nor  disposed  of  it  with  greater 
generosity. 

Numberless  mobilized  men  of  the  lower  classes  who 
were  going  alone  toward  the  station  met  a  gentleman 
who  would  timidly  stop  them,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  leave  in  their  right  hand  a  bill  of  twenty  francs, 
fleeing  immediately  before  their  astonished  eyes.  The 
working-women  who  were  returning  weeping  from  say- 
ing good-bye  to  their  husbands  saw  this  same  gentleman 
smiling  at  the  children  who  were  with  them,  patting 
their  cheeks  and  hastening  away,  leaving  a  five- franc 
piece  in  their  hands. 

Don  Marcelo,  who  had  never  smoked,  was  now  fre- 
quenting the  tobacco  shops,  coming  out  with  hands  and 
pockets  filled  in  order  that  he  might,  with  lavish  gener- 
osity, press  the  packages  upon  the  first  soldier  he  met. 
At  times  the  recipient,  smiling  courteously,  would  thank 
him  with  a  few  words,  revealing  his  superior  breeding 
— afterwards  passing  the  gift  on  to  others  clad  in  cloaks 
as  coarse  and  badly  cut  as  his  own.  The  mobilization, 
universally  obligatory,  often  caused  him  to  make  these 
mistakes. 

The  rough  hands  pressing  his  with  a  grateful  clasp, 
left  him  satisfied  for  a  few  moments.    Ah,  if  he  could 


196    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

only  do  more;  .  .  .  The  Government  in  mobilizing  its 
vehicles  had  appropriated  three  of  his  monumental  auto- 
mobiles, and  Desnoyers  felt  very  sorry  that  they  were 
not  also  taking  the  fourth  mastodon.  Of  what  use  were 
they  to  him  ?  The  shepherds  of  this  monstrous  herd,  the 
chauffeur  and  his  assistants,  were  now  in  the  army. 
Everybody  was  marching  away.  Finally  he  and  his  son 
would  be  the  only  ones  left — two  useless  creatures. 

He  roared  with  wrath  on  learning  of  the  enemy's  en- 
trance into  Belgium,  considering  this  the  most  unheard- 
of  treason  in  history.  He  suffered  agonies  of  shame 
at  remembering  that  at  first  he  had  held  the  exalted 
patriots  of  his  country  responsible  for  the  war.  .  .  . 
What  perfidy,  methodically  carried  out  after  long  years 
of  preparation !  The  accounts  of  the  sackings,  fires  and 
butcheries  made  him  turn  pale  and  gnash  his  teeth.  To 
him,  to  Marcelo  Desnoyers,  might  happen  the  very  same 
thing  that  Belgium  was  enduring,  if  the  barbarians 
should  invade  France  He  had  a  home  in  the  city,  a  cas- 
tle in  the  country,  and  a  family.  Through  association  of 
ideas,  the  women  assaulted  by  the  soldiery  made  him 
think  of  Chichi  and  the  dear  Dofia  Luisa.  The  man- 
sions in  flames  called  to  his  mind  the  rare  and  costly 
furnishings  accumulated  in  his  expensive  dwellings — the 
armorial  bearings  of  his  social  elevation.  The  old  folk 
that  were  shot,  the  women  foully  mutilated,  the  children 
with  their  hands  cut  off,  all  the  horrors  of  a  war  of 
terror,  aroused  the  violence  of  his  character. 

And  such  things  could  happen  with  impunity  in  this 
day  and  generation !  .  .  . 

In  order  to  convince  himself  that  punishment  was 
near,  that  vengeance  was  overtaking  the  guilty  ones,  he 
felt  the  necessity  of  mingling  daily  with  the  people  crowd- 
ing around  the  Gare  de  I'Est. 

Although  the  greater  part  of  the  troops  were  operat- 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  197 

ing  on  the  frontiers,  that  was  not  diminishing  the  ac- 
tivity in  Paris.  Entire  battalions  were  no  longer  going 
off,  but  day  and  night  soldiers  were  coming  to  the  sta- 
tion singly  or  in  groups.  These  were  Reserves  without 
uniform  on  their  way  to  enroll  themselves  with  their 
companies,  officials  who  until  then  had  been  busy  with 
the  work  of  the  mobilization,  platoons  in  arms  destined 
to  fill  the  great  gaps  opened  by  death. 

The  multitude,  pressed  against  the  railing,  was  greet- 
ing those  who  were  going  off,  following  them  with  their 
eyes  while  they  were  crossing  the  large  square.  The 
latest  editions  of  the  daily  papers  were  announced  with 
hoarse  yells,  and  instantly  the  dark  throng  would  be 
spotted  with  white,  all  reading  with  avidity  the  printed 
sheets.  Good  news:  "Vive  la  France!"  A  doubtful 
despatch,  foreshadowing  calamity:  "No  matter!  We 
must  press  on  at  all  costs!  The  Russians  will  close  in 
behind  them!"  And  while  these  dialogues,  inspired  by 
the  latest  news  were  taking  place,  many  young  girls  were 
going  among  the  groups  offering  little  flags  and  tricolored 
cockades — and  passing  through  the  patio,  men  and  still 
more  men  were  disappearing  behind  the  glass  doors,  on 
their  way  to  the  war. 

A  sub-lieutenant  of  the  Reserves,  with  his  bag  on  his 
shoulder,  was  accompanied  by  his  father  toward  the  file 
of  policemen  keeping  the  crowds  back.  Desnoyers  saw 
in  the  young  officer  a  certain  resemblance  to  his  son. 
The  father  was  wearing  in  his  lapel  the  black  and  green 
ribbon  of  1870 — a  decoration  which  always  filled  Des- 
noyers with  remorse.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  but  was 
still  trying  to  hold  himself  erect,  with  a  heavy  frown. 
He  wanted  to  show  himself  fierce,  inhuman,  in  order  to 
hide  his  emotion. 

"Good-bye,  my  boy!     Do  your  best." 

"Good-bye,  father." 


198    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

They  did  not  clasp  hands,  and  each  was  avoiding  look- 
ing at  the  other.  The  official  was  smiling  like  an  autom- 
aton. The  father  turned  his  back  brusquely,  and  thread- 
ing his  way  through  the  throng,  entered  a  cafe,  where 
for  some  time  he  needed  the  most  retired  seat  in  the 
darkest  corner  to  hide  his  emotion. 

And  Don  Marcelo  envied  his  grief. 

Some  of  the  Reservists  came  along  singing,  preceded 
by  a  flag.  They  were  joking  and  jostling  each  other, 
betraying  in  excited  actions,  long  halts  at  all  the  taverns 
along  the  way.  One  of  them,  without  interrupting  his 
song,  was  pressing  the  hand  of  an  old  woman  marching 
beside  him,  cheerful  and  dry-eyed.  The  mother  was 
concentrating  all  her  strength  in  order,  with  feigned  hap- 
piness, to  accompany  this  strapping  lad  to  the  last  min- 
ute. 

Others  were  coming  along  singly,  separated  from  their 
companies,  but  not  on  that  account  alone.  The  gun 
was  hanging  from  the  shoulder,  the  back  overlaid  by  the 
hump  of  the  knapsack,  the  red  legs  shooting  in  and  out 
of  the  turned-back  folds  of  the  blue  cloak,  and  the  smoke 
of  a  pipe  under  the  visor  of  the  kepis.  In  front  of  one 
of  these  men,  four  children  were  walking  along,  lined 
up  according  to  size.  They  kept  turning  their  heads  to 
admire  their  father,  suddenly  glorified  by  his  military 
trappings.  At  his  side  was  marching  his  wife,  affable  and 
resigned,  feeling  in  her  simple  soul  a  revival  of  love,  an 
ephemeral  Spring,  born  of  the  contact  with  danger.  The 
man,  a  laborer  of  Paris,  who  a  few  months  before  was 
singing  La  Internacional,  demanding  the  abolishment  of 
armies  and  the  brotherhood  of  all  mankind,  was  now 
going  in  quest  of  death.  His  wife,  choking  back  her 
sobs,  was  admiring  him  greatly.  Affection  and  commis- 
eration made  her  insist  upon  giving  him  a  few  last  coun- 
sels.   In  his  knapsack  she  had  put  his  best  handkerchiefs, 


WHAT  DON  MARCELO  ENVIED  199 

the  few  provisions  in  the  house  and  all  the  money.  Her 
man  was  not  to  be  uneasy  about  her  and  the  children; 
they  would  get  along  all  right.  The  government  and 
kind  neighbors  would  look  after  them. 

The  soldier  in  reply  was  jesting  over  the  somewhat 
misshapen  figure  of  his  wife,  saluting  the  coming  citizen, 
and  prophesying  that  he  would  be  born  in  a  time  of 
great  victory.  A  kiss  to  the  wife,  an  affectionate  hair- 
pull  for  his  offspring,  and  then  he  had  joined  his  com- 
rades. .  .  .  No  tears.     Courage!  .  .  .  Vive  la  France t 

The  final  injunctions  of  the  departing  were  now  heard. 
Nobody  was  crying.  But  as  the  last  red  pantaloons  dis- 
appeared, many  hands  grasped  the  iron  railing  convul- 
sively, many  handkerchiefs  were  bitten  with  gnashing 
teeth,  many  faces  were  hidden  in  the  arms  with  sobs 
of  anguish. 

And  Don  Marcelo  envied  these  tears. 

The  old  woman,  on  losing  the  warm  contact  of  her 
son's  hand  from  her  withered  one,  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion which  she  believed  to  be  that  of  the  hostile  coun- 
try, waving  her  arms  with  threatening  fury. 

"Ah,  the  assassin !  .  .  .  the  bandit !" 

In  her  wrathful  imagination  she  was  again  seeing  the 
countenance  so  often  displayed  in  the  illustrated  pages 
of  the  periodicals — moustaches  insolently  aggressive,  a 
mouth  with  the  jaw  and  teeth  of  a  wolf,  that  laughed 
.  .  .  and  laughed  as  men  must  have  laughed  in  the  time 
of  the  cave-men. 

And  Don  Marcelo  envied  this  wrath! 


CHAPTER  II 


NEW   LIFE 


When  Marguerite  was  able  to  return  to  the  studio  in 
the  rue  de  la  Pompe,  Julio,  who  had  been  living  in  a  per- 
petual bad  humor,  seeing  everything  in  the  blackest 
colors,  suddenly  felt  a  return  of  his  old  optimism. 

The  war  was  not  going  to  be  so  cruel  as  they  all  had 
at  first  imagined.  The  days  had  passed  by,  and  the 
movements  of  the  troops  were  beginning  to  be  less  notice- 
able. As  the  number  of  men  diminished  in  the  streets, 
the  feminine  population  seemed  to  have  increased.  Al- 
though there  was  great  scarcity  of  money,  the  banks 
still  remaining  closed,  the  necessity  for  it  was  increas- 
ingly great,  in  order  to  secure  provisions.  Memories  of 
the  famine  of  the  siege  of  '70  tormented  the  imagina- 
tion. Since  war  had  broken  out  with  the  same  enemy, 
it  seemed  but  logical  to  everybody  to  expect  a  repetition 
of  the  same  happenings.  The  storehouses  were  besieged 
by  women  who  were  securing  stale  food  at  exorbitant 
prices  in  order  to  store  it  in  their  homes.  Future  hun- 
ger was  producing  more  terror  than  immediate  dan- 
gers. 

For  young  Desnoyers  these  were  about  all  the  trans- 
formations that  war  was  creating  around  him.  People 
would  finally  become  accustomed  to  the  new  existence. 
Humanity  has  a  certain  reserve  force  of  adaptation 
which  enables  it  to  mould  itself  to  circumstances  and 
continue  existing.  He  was  hoping  to  continue  his  life 
as  though  nothing  had  happened.     It  was  enough  for 

aoo 


NEW  LIFE  20I 

him  that  Marguerite  should  continue  faithful  to  their 
past.  Together  they  would  see  events  slipping  by  them 
with  the  cruel  luxuriousness  of  those  who,  from  an  in- 
accessible height,  contemplate  a  flood  without  the  slight- 
est risk  to  themselves. 

This  selfish  attitude  had  also  become  habitual  to  Argen- 
sola. 

"Let  us  be  neutral,"  the  Bohemian  would  say.  "Neu- 
trality does  not  necessarily  mean  indifference.  Let  us 
enjoy  the  great  spectacle,  since  nothing  like  it  will  ever 
happen  again  in  our  lifetime." 

It  was  unfortunate  that  war  should  happen  to  come 
when  they  had  so  little  money.  Argensola  was  hating 
the  banks  even  more  than  the  Central  Powers,  distin- 
guishing with  special  antipathy  the  trust  company  which 
was  delaying  payment  of  Julio's  check.  How  lovely  it 
would  have  been  with  this  sum  available,  to  have  fore- 
stalled events  by  laying  in  every  class  of  commodity! 
In  order  to  supplement  the  domestic  scrimping,  he  again 
had  to  solicit  the  aid  of  Dona  Luisa.  War  had  blessed 
Don  Marcelo's  precautions,  and  the  family  was  now  liv- 
ing in  generous  unconcern.  The  mother,  like  other 
house  mistresses,  had  stored  up  provisions  for  months 
and  months  to  come,  buying  whatever  eatables  she  was 
able  to  lay  hands  on.  Argensola  took  advantage  of  this 
abundance,  repeating  his  visits  to  the  home  in  the  ave- 
nue Victor  Hugo,  descending  its  service  stairway  with 
great  packages  which  were  swelling  the  supplies  in  the 
studio. 

He  felt  all  the  joys  of  a  good  housekeeper  in  survey- 
ing the  treasures  piled  up  in  the  kitchen — great  tins  of 
canned  meat,  pyramids  of  butter  crocks,  and  bags  of 
dried  vegetables.  He  had  accumulated  enough  there  to 
maintain  a  large  family.  The  war  had  now  offered  a  new 
pretext  for  him  to  visit  Don  Marcelo's  wine-vaults. 


202    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"Let  them  come !"  he  would  say  with  a  heroic  gesture 
as  he  took  stock  of  his  treasure  trove.  "Let  them  come 
when  they  will !    We  are  ready  for  them !" 

The  care  and  increase  of  his  provisions,  and  the  inves- 
tigation of  news  were  the  two  functions  of  his  existence. 
It  seemed  necessary  to  procure  ten,  twelve,  fifteen  pa- 
pers a  day ;  some  because  they  were  reactionary,  and  the 
novelty  of  seeing  all  the  French  united  filled  him  with 
enthusiasm;  others  because  they  were  radical  and  must 
be  better  informed  of  the  news  received  from  the  gov- 
ernment. They  generally  appeared  at  midday,  at  three, 
at  four  and  at  five  in  the  afternoon.  An  half  hour's 
delay  in  the  publication  of  the  sheet  raised  great  hopes 
in  the  public,  on  the  qui  vive  for  stupendous  news.  All 
the  last  supplements  were  snatched  up ;  everybody  had 
his  pockets  stuffed  with  papers,  waiting  anxiously  the 
issue  of  extras  in  order  to  buy  them,  too.  Yet  all  the 
sheets  were  saying  approximately  the  same  thing. 

Argensola  was  developing  a  credulous,  enthusiastic 
soul,  capable  of  admitting  many  improbable  things.  He 
presumed  that  this  same  spirit  was  probably  animating 
everybody  around  him.  At  times,  his  old  critical  atti- 
tude would  threaten  to  rebel,  but  doubt  was  repulsed  as 
something  dishonorable.  He  was  living  in  a  new  world, 
and  it  was  but  natural  that  extraordinary  things  should 
occur  that  could  be  neither  measured  nor  explained  by 
the  old  processes  of  reasoning.  So  he  commented  with 
infantile  joy  on  the  marvellous  accounts  in  the  daily  pa- 
pers— of  combats  between  a  single  Belgian  platoon  and 
entire  regiments  of  enemies,  putting  them  to  disorderly 
flight ;  of  the  German  fear  of  the  bayonet  that  made  them 
run  like  hares  the  instant  that  the  charge  sounded ;  of  the 
inefficiency  of  the  German  artillery  whose  projectiles 
always  missed  fire. 

It  was  logical  and  natural  that  little  Belgium  should 


NEW  LIFE  203 

conquer  gigantic  Germany — a  repetition  of  David  and 
Goliath — with  all  the  metaphors  and  images  that  this 
unequal  contest  had  inspired  across  so  many  centuries. 
Like  the  greater  part  of  the  nation,  he  had  the  mental- 
ity of  a  reader  of  tales  of  chivalry  vi^ho  feels  himself 
defrauded  if  the  hero,  single-handed,  fails  to  cleave  a 
thousand  enemies  with  one  fell  stroke.  He  purposely 
chose  the  most  sensational  papers,  those  which  published 
many  stories  of  single  encounters,  of  individual  deeds 
about  which  nobody  could  know  with  any  degree  of  cer- 
tainty. 

The  intervention  of  England  on  the  seas  made  him 
imagine  a  frightful  famine,  coming  providentially  like 
a  thunder-clap  to  torture  the  enemy.  He  honestly  be- 
lieved that  ten  days  of  this  maritime  blockade  would 
convert  Germany  into  a  group  of  shipwrecked  sailors 
floating  on  a  raft.  This  vision  made  him  repeat  his 
visits  to  the  kitchen  to  gloat  over  his  packages  of  pro- 
visions. 

"Ah,  what  they  would  give  in  Berlin  for  my  treas- 
ures!" .  .  . 

Never  had  Argensola  eaten  with  greater  avidity.  Con- 
sideration of  the  great  privations  suffered  by  the  ad- 
versary was  sharpening  his  appetite  to  a  monstrous  ca- 
pacity. White  bread,  golden  brown  and  crusty,  was 
stimulating  him  to  an  almost  religious  ecstasy. 

"If  friend  William  could  only  get  his  claws  on  this!" 
he  would  chuckle  to  his  companion. 

So  he  chewed  and  swallowed  with  increasing  relish; 
solids  and  liquods  on  passing  through  his  mouth  seemed 
to  be  acquiring  a  new  flavor,  rare  and  divine.  Distant 
hunger  for  him  was  a  stimulant,  a  sauce  of  endless  de- 
light. 

W'hile  France  was  inspiring  his  enthusiasm,  he  was 
conceding  greater  credit  to   Russia.     "Ah,  those   Cos- 


204    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

sacks!"  .  .  .  He  was  accustomed  to  speak  of  them  as 
intimate  friends.  He  loved  to  describe  the  unbridled 
gallop  of  the  wild  horsemen,  impalpable  as  phantoms,  and 
so  terrible  in  their  wrath  that  the  enemy  could  not  look 
them  in  the  face.  The  concierge  and  the  stay-at-homes 
used  to  listen  to  him  with  all  the  respect  due  to  a  for- 
eign gentleman,  knowing  much  of  the  great  outside 
world  with  which  they  were  not  familiar. 

"The  Cossacks  will  adjust  the  accounts  of  these  ban- 
dits !"  he  would  conclude  with  absolute  assurance. 
"Within  a  month  they  will  have  entered  Berlin." 

And  his  public  composed  of  women — wives  and 
mothers  of  those  who  had  gone  to  war — would  modestly 
agree  with  him,  with  that  irresistible  desire  which  we  all 
feel  of  placing  our  hopes  on  something  distant  and  mys- 
terious. The  French  would  defend  the  country,  recon- 
quering, besides  the  lost  territories,  but  the  Cossacks — 
of  whom  so  many  were  speaking  but  so  few  had  seen 
— were  going  to  give  the  death  blow.  The  only  person 
who  knew  them  at  first  hand  was  Tchernoff,  and  to 
Argensola's  astonishment,  he  listened  to  his  words  with- 
out showing  any  enthusiasm.  The  Cossacks  were  for 
him  simply  one  body  of  the  Russian  army — good  enough 
soldiers,  but  incapable  of  working  the  miracles  that  every- 
body was  expecting  from  them. 

"That  Tchernoff!"  exclaimed  Argensola.  "Since  he 
hates  the  Czar,  he  thinks  the  entire  country  mad.  He 
is  a  revolutionary  fanatic.  .  .  .  And  I  am  opposed  to  all 
fanaticisms." 

Julio  was  listening  absent-mindedly  to  the  news 
brought  by  his  companion,  the  vibrating  statements  re- 
cited in  declamatory  tones,  the  plans  of  the  campaign 
traced  out  on  an  enormous  map  fastened  to  the  wall  of 
the  studio  and  bristling  with  tiny  flags  that  marked  the 
camps  of  the  belligerent  armies.    Every  issue  of  the  pa- 


NEW  LIFE  205 

pers  obliged  the  Spaniard  to  arrange  a  new  dance  of  the 
pins  on  the  map,  followed  by  his  comments  of  bomb- 
proof optimism. 

"We  have  entered  into  Alsace ;  very  good !  ...  It  ap- 
pears now  that  we  abandon  Alsace,  Splendid !  I  suspect 
the  cause.  It  is  in  order  to  enter  again  in  a  better  place, 
getting  at  the  enemy  from  behind.  .  .  .  They  say  that 
Liege  has  fallen.  What  a  lie !  .  .  .  And  if  it  does  fall, 
it  doesn't  matter.  Just  an  incident,  nothing  more !  The 
others  remain  .  .  .  the  others !  .  .  .  that  are  advancing 
on  the  Eastern  side,  and  are  going  to  enter  Berlin." 

The  news  from  the  Russian  front  was  his  favorite, 
but  obliged  him  to  remain  in  suspense  every  time  that 
he  tried  to  find  on  the  map  the  obscure  names  of  the 
places  where  the  admired  Cossacks  were  exhibiting  their 
wonderful  exploits. 

Meanwhile  Julio  was  continuing  the  course  of  his 
own  reflections.  Marguerite !  .  .  .  She  had  come  back  at 
last,  and  yet  each  time  seemed  to  be  drifting  further 
away  from  him.  .  .  . 

In  the  first  days  of  the  mobilization,  he  had  haunted 
her  neighborhood,  trying  to  appease  his  longing  by  this 
illusory  proximity.  Marguerite  had  written  to  him, 
urging  patience.  How  fortunate  it  was  that  he  was  a 
foreigner  and  would  not  have  to  endure  the  hardship 
of  war !  Her  brother,  an  officer  in  the  artillery  Reserves, 
was  going  at  almost  any  minute.  Her  mother,  who 
made  her  home  with  this  bachelor  son,  had  kept  an  as- 
tonishing serenity  up  to  the  last  minute,  although  she  had 
wept  much  while  the  war  was  still  but  a  possibility.  She 
herself  had  prepared  the  soldier's  outfit  so  that  the 
small  valise  might  contain  all  that  was  indispensable 
for  campaign  life.  But  ^Marguerite  had  divined  her  poor 
mother's  secret  struggles  not  to  reveal  her  despair,  in 
moist  eyes  and  trembling  hands.     It  was  impossible  to 


2o6     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

leave  her  alone  at  such  a  time.  .  .  .  Then  had  come  the 
farewell.  "God  be  with  you,  my  son !  Do  your  duty, 
but  be  prudent."  Not  a  tear  nor  a  sign  of  weakness. 
All  her  family  had  advised  her  not  to  accompany  her 
son  to  the  railway  station,  so  his  sister  had  gone  with 
him.  And  upon  returning  home.  Marguerite  had  found 
her  mother  rigid  in  her  arm  chair,  with  a  set  face,  avoid- 
ing all  mention  of  her  son,  speaking  of  the  friends  who 
also  had  sent  their  boys  to  the  war,  as  if  they  only  could 
comprehend  her  torture.  "Poor  Mama!  I  ought  to  be 
with  her  now  more  than  ever.  .  .  .  To-morrow,  if  I  can, 
I  shall  come  to  see  you." 

When  at  last  she  returned  to  the  rue  de  la  Ponipe,  her 
first  care  was  to  explain  to  Julio  the  conservatism  of 
her  tailored  suit,  the  absence  of  jewels  in  the  adorn- 
ment of  her  person.  "The  war,  my  dear!  Now  it  is  the 
chic  thing  to  adapt  oneself  to  the  depressing  conditions, 
to  be  frugal  and  inconspicuous  like  soldiers.  Who 
knows  what  we  may  expect !"  Her  infatuation  with 
dress  still  accompanied  her  in  every  moment  of  her  life. 

Julio  noticed  a  persistent  absent-mindedness  about  her. 
It  seemed  as  though  her  spirit,  abandoning  her  body,  was 
wandering  to  far-away  places.  Her  eyes  were  looking 
at  him,  but  she  seldom  saw  him.  She  would  speak  very 
slowly,  as  though  wishing  to  weigh  every  word,  fear- 
ful of  betraying  some  secret.  This  spiritual  alienation 
did  not,  however,  prevent  her  slipping  bodily  along  the 
smooth  path  of  custom,  although  afterwards  she  would 
seem  to  feel  a  vague  remorse.  "I  wonder  if  it  is  right 
to  do  this  I  ...  Is  it  not  wrong  to  live  like  this  when  so 
many  sorrows  are  falling  on  the  world?"  Julio  hushed 
her  scruples  with : 

^'But  if  we  are  going  to  marry  as  soon  as  possible! 
.  .  .  If  we  are  already  the  same  as  husband  and  wife!" 

Slie  replied  with  a  gesture  of  strangeness  and  dismay. 


NEW  LIFE  207 

To  marry!  ,  .  .  Ten  days  ago  she  had  had  no  other 
wish.  Now  the  possibihty  of  marriage  was  recurring 
less  and  less  in  her  thoughts.  Why  think  about  such 
remote  and  uncertain  events?  More  immediate  things 
were  occupying  her  mind. 

The  farewell  to  her  brother  in  the  station  was  a  scene 
which  had  fixed  itself  ineradicably  in  her  memory.  Upon 
going  to  the  studio  she  had  planned  not  to  speak  about  it, 
foreseeing  that  she  might  annoy  her  lover  with  this 
account ;  but  alas,  she  had  only  to  vow  not  to  mention 
a  thing,  to  feel  an  irresistible  impulse  to  talk  about  it. 

She  had  never  suspected  that  she  could  love  her 
brother  so  dearly.  Her  former  affection  for  him  had 
been  mingled  with  a  silent  sentiment  of  jealousy  because 
her  mother  had  preferred  the  older  child.  Besides,  he 
was  the  one  who  had  introduced  Laurier  to  his  home; 
the  two  held  diplomas  as  industrial  engineers  and  had 
been  close  friends  from  their  school  days.  .  .  .  But  upon 
seeing  the  boy  ready  to  depart,  Marguerite  suddenly 
discovered  that  this  brother,  who  had  always  been  of  sec- 
ondary interest  to  her,  was  now  occupying  a  pre-eminent 
place  in  her  affections. 

"He  was  so  handsome,  so  interesting  in  his  lieuten- 
ant's uniform!  .  .  .  He  looked  like  another  person.  I 
will  admit  to  you  that  I  was  very  proud  to  walk  beside 
him,  leaning  on  his  arm.  People  thought  that  we  were 
married.  Seeing  me  weep,  some  poor  women  tried  to 
console  me  saying,  'Courage,  Madame.  .  .  .  Your  man 
will  come  back.'  He  just  laughed  at  hearing  these  mis- 
takes. The  only  thing  that  was  really  saddening  him 
was  thinking  about  our  mother." 

They  had  separated  at  the  door  of  the  station.  The 
sentries  would  not  let  her  go  any  further,  so  she  had 
handed  over  his  sword  that  she  had  wished  to  carry 
till  the  last  moment. 


2o8    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"It  is  lovely  to  be  a  man !"  she  exclaimed  enthusiasti- 
cally. "I  would  love  to  wear  a  uniform,  to  go  to  war,  to 
be  of  some  real  use!" 

She  tried  not  to  say  more  about  it,  as  though  she 
suddenly  realized  the  inopportuneness  of  her  last  words. 
Perhaps  she  noticed  the  scowl  on  Julio's  face. 

She  was,  however,  so  wrought  up  by  the  memory  of 
that  farewell  that,  after  a  long  pause,  she  was  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  again  putting  her  thought  into 
words. 

At  the  station  entrance,  while  she  was  kissing  her 
brother  for  the  last  time,  she  had  an  encounter,  a  great 
surprise.  "He"  had  approached,  also  clad  as  an  artil- 
lery officer,  but  alone,  having  to  entrust  his  valise  to  a 
good-natured  man  from  the  crowd. 

Julio  shot  her  a  questioning  look.  Who  was  "he"? 
He  suspected,  but  feigned  ignorance,  as  though  fearing 
to  learn  the  truth. 

"Laurier,"  she  replied  laconically,  "my  former  hus- 
band." 

The  lover  displayed  a  cruel  irony.  It  was  a  cowardly 
thing  to  ridicule  this  man  who  had  responded  to  the  call 
of  duty.  He  recognized  his  vileness,  but  a  malign  and 
irresistible  instinct  made  him  keep  on  with  his  sneers  in 
order  to  discredit  the  man  before  Marguerite.  Laurier 
a  soldier! — He  must  cut  a  pretty  figure  dressed  in  uni- 
form! 

"Laurier,  the  warrior !"  he  continued  in  a  voice  so  sar- 
castic and  strange  that  it  seemed  to  be  coming  from 
somebody  else.  .  .  .  "Poor  creature !" 

She  hesitated  in  her  response,  not  wishing  to  exasper- 
ate Desnoyers  any  further.  But  the  truth  was  upper- 
most in  her  mind,  and  she  said  simply : 

"No  .  .  .  no,  he  didn't  look  so  bad.  Quite  the  con- 
trary.    Perhaps  it  was  the  uniform,  perhaps  it  was  his 


NEW  LIFE  209 

sadness  at  going  away  alone,  completely  alone,  without 
a  single  hand  to  clasp  his.  I  didn't  recognize  him  at 
first.  Seeing  my  brother,  he  started  toward  us ;  but  then 
when  he  saw  me,  he  went  his  own  way.  .  .  .  Poor  man ! 
I  feel  sorry  for  him !" 

Her  feminine  instinct  must  have  told  her  that  she  was 
talking  too  much,  and  she  cut  her  chatter  suddenly  short. 
The  same  instinct  warned  her  that  Julio's  countenance 
was  growing  more  and  more  saturnine,  and  his  mouth 
taking  a  very  bitter  curve.  She  wanted  to  console  him 
and  added: 

"What  luck  that  you  are  a  foreigner  and  will  not  have 
to  go  to  the  war  I  How  horrible  it  would  be  for  me  to 
lose  you !"  .  .  . 

She  said  it  sincerely.  ...  A  few  moments  before  she 
had  been  envying  men,  admiring  the  gallantry  with  which 
they  were  exposing  their  lives,  and  now  she  was  trem- 
bling before  the  idea  that  her  lover  might  have  been  one 
of  these. 

This  did  not  please  his  amorous  egoism — to  be  placed 
apart  from  the  rest  as  a  delicate  and  fragile  being  only 
fit  for  feminine  adoration.  He  preferred  to  inspire  the 
envy  that  she  had  felt  on  beholding  her  brother  decked 
out  in  his  warlike  accoutrement.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
something  was  coming  between  him  and  Marguerite  that 
would  never  disappear,  that  would  go  on  expanding,  re- 
pelling them  in  contrary  directions  .  .  .  far  .  .  .  very 
far,  even  to  the  point  of  not  recognizing  each  other 
when  their  glances  met. 

He  continued  to  be  conscious  of  this  impalpable  ob- 
stacle in  their  following  interviews.  Marguerite  was 
extremely  affectionate  in  her  speech,  and  would  look  at 
him  with  moist  and  loving  eyes.  But  her  caressing  hands 
appeared  more  like  those  of  a  mother  than  a  lover,  and 
her  tenderness  was  accompanied  with  a  certain  disinter- 


2IO    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

estedness  and  extraordinary  modesty.  She  seemed  to 
prefer  remaining  obstinately  in  the  studio,  declining  to 
go  into  the  other  rooms. 

"We  are  so  comfortable  here.  ...  I  would  rather  not. 
...  It  is  not  worth  while.  I  should  feel  remorse  after- 
wards. .  .  .  Why  think  of  such  things  in  these  anxious 
times!"  ... 

The  world  around  her  seemed  saturated  with  love,  but 
it  was  a  new  love — a  love  for  the  man  who  is  suffering, 
desire  for  abnegation,  for  sacrifice.  This  love  called 
forth  visions  of  white  caps,  of  tremulous  hands  healing 
shell-riddled  and  bleeding  flesh. 

Every  advance  on  Julio's  part  but  aroused  in  Margu- 
erite a  vehement  and  modest  protest  as  though  they  were 
meeting  for  the  first  time. 

"It  is  impossible,"  she  protested,  "I  keep  thinking  of 
my  brother,  and  of  so  many  that  I  know  that  may  be 
dying  at  this  very  minute." 

News  of  battles  were  beginning  to  arrive,  and  blood 
was  beginning  to  flow  in  great  quantities. 

"No,  no,  I  cannot,"  she  kept  repeating. 

And  when  Julio  finally  triumphed,  he  found  that  her 
thoughts  were  still  following  independently  the  same  line 
of  mental  stress. 

One  afternoon.  Marguerite  announced  that  henceforth 
she  would  see  him  less  frequently.  She  was  attending 
classes  now,  and  had  only  two  free  days. 

Desnoyers  listened,  dumbfounded.  Classes?  .  .  . 
What  were  her  studies  ?  .  .  . 

She  seemed  a  little  irritated  at  his  mocking  expres- 
sion. .  .  .  Yes,  she  was  studying;  for  the  past  week  she 
had  been  attending  classes.  Now  the  lessons  were  go- 
ing to  be  more  regular ;  the  course  of  instruction  had 
been  fully  organized,  and  there  were  many  more  instruc- 
tors. 


NEW  LIFE  211 

"I  wish  to  be  a  trained  nurse.  I  am  distressed  over 
my  uselessness.  ...  Of  what  good  have  I  ever  been  till 
now?"  .  .  . 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  as  though  review- 
ing her  past. 

"At  times  I  almost  think,"  she  mused,  "that  war,  with 
all  its  horrors,  still  has  some  good  in  it.  It  helps  to  make 
us  useful  to  our  fellowmen.  We  look  at  life  more  seri- 
ously; trouble  makes  us  realize  that  we  have  come  into 
the  world  for  some  purpose.  ...  I  believe  that  we  must 
not  love  life  only  for  the  pleasures  that  it  brings  us. 
We  ought  to  find  satisfaction  in  sacrifice,  in  dedicating 
ourselves  to  others,  and  this  satisfaction — I  don't  know 
just  why,  perhaps  because  it  is  new — appears  to  me 
superior  to  all  other  things." 

Julio  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  trying  to  imagine  what 
was  going  on  in  that  idolized  and  frivolous  head.  What 
ideas  were  forming  back  of  that  thoughtful  forehead 
which  until  then  had  merely  reflected  the  slightest  shadow 
of  thoughts  as  swift  and  flitting  as  birds?  .  .  . 

But  the  former  Marguerite  was  still  alive.  He  saw 
her  constantly  reappearing  in  a  funny  way  among  the 
sombre  preoccupations  with  which  war  was  overshadow- 
ing all  lives. 

"We  have  to  study  very  hard  in  order  to  earn  our 
diplomas  as  nurses.  Have  you  noticed  our  uniform? 
...  It  is  most  distinctive,  and  the  white  is  so  becoming 
both  to  blondes  and  brunettes.  Then  the  cap  which  al- 
lows little  curls  over  the  ears — the  fashionable  coiffure 
— and  the  blue  cape  over  the  white  suit,  make  a  splen- 
did contrast.  With  this  outfit,  a  woman  well  shod,  and 
with  few  jewels,  may  present  a  truly  chic  appearance. 
It  is  a  mixture  of  nun  and  great  lady  which  is  vastly 
becoming." 

She  was  going  to  study  with  a  regular  fury  in  order 


212    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

to  become  really  useful  .  .  .  and  sooner  to  wear  the  ad- 
mired uniform. 

Poor  Desnoyers !  .  .  .  The  longing  to  see  her,  and  the 
lack  of  occupation  in  these  interminable  afternoons  which 
hitherto  had  been  employed  so  delightfully,  compelled 
him  to  haunt  the  neighborhood  of  the  unoccupied  pal- 
ace where  the  government  had  just  established  the  train- 
ing school  for  nurses.  Stationing  himself  at  the  corner, 
watching  the  fluttering  skirts  and  quick  steps  of  the 
feminine  feet  on  the  sidewalk,  he  imagined  that  the  course 
of  time  must  have  turned  backward,  and  that  he  was  still 
but  eighteen — the  same  as  when  he  used  to  hang  around 
the  establishments  of  some  celebrated  modiste.  The 
groups  of  women  that  at  certain  hours  came  out  of  the 
palace  suggested  these  former  days.  They  were  dressed 
extremely  quietly,  the  aspect  of  many  of  them  as  humble 
as  that  of  the  seamstresses.  But  they  were  ladies  of  the 
well-to-do  class,  some  even  coming  in  automobiles  driven 
by  chauffeurs  in  military  uniform,  because  they  were 
ministerial  vehicles. 

These  long  waits  often  brought  him  unexpected  en- 
counters with  the  elegant  students  who  were  going  and 
coming. 

"Desnoyers !"  some  feminine  voices  would  exclaim  be- 
hind him.    "Isn't  it  Desnoyers?" 

And  he  would  find  himself  obliged  to  relieve  their 
doubts,  saluting  the  ladies  who  were  looking  at  him  as 
though  he  were  a  ghost.  They  were  friends  of  a  re- 
mote epoch,  of  six  months  ago — ladies  who  had  admired 
and  pursued  him,  trusting  sweetly  to  his  masterly  wis- 
dom to  guide  them  through  the  seven  circles  of  the  sci- 
ence of  the  tango.  They  were  now  scrutinizing  him  as  if 
between  their  last  encounter  and  the  present  moment  had 
occurred  a  great  cataclysm,  transforming  all  the  laws 


NEW  LIFE  213 

of  existence — as  if  he  were  the  sole  survivor  of  a  van- 
ished race. 

Eventually  they  all  asked  the  same  questions — "Are 
you  not  going  to  the  war?  .  .  .  How  is  it  that  you  are 
not  wearing  a  uniform?" 

He  would  attempt  to  explain,  but  at  his  first  words, 
they  would  interrupt  him: 

"That's  so.  .  ,  .  You  are  a  foreigner." 

They  would  say  it  with  a  certain  envy,  doubtless  think- 
ing of  their  loved  ones  now  suffering  the  privations  and 
dangers  of  war.  .  .  .  But  the  fact  that  he  was  a  for- 
eigner would  instantly  create  a  vague  atmosphere  of 
spiritual  aloofness,  an  alienation  that  Julio  had  not  known 
in  the  good  old  days  when  people  sought  each  other 
without  considering  nationality,  without  feeling  that  dis- 
avowal of  danger  which  isolates  and  concentrates  hu- 
man groups. 

The  ladies  generally  bade  him  adieu  with  malicious  sus- 
picion. What  was  he  doing  hanging  around  there?  In 
search  of  his  usual  lucky  adventure?  .  .  .  And  their 
smiles  were  rather  grave,  the  smiles  of  older  folk  who 
know  the  true  significance  of  life  and  commiserate  the 
deluded  ones  still  seeking  diversion  in  frivolities. 

This  attitude  was  as  annoying  to  Julio  as  though  it 
were  a  manifestation  of  pity.  They  were  supposing  him 
still  exercising  the  only  function  of  which  he  was  ca- 
pable ;  he  wasn't  good  for  anything  else.  On  the  other 
hand,  these  empty  heads,  still  keeping  something  of  their 
old  appearance,  now  appeared  animated  by  the  grand 
sentiment  of  maternity — an  abstract  maternity  which 
seemed  to  be  extending  to  all  the  men  of  the  nation — a 
desire  for  self-sacrifice,  of  knowing  first-hand  the  pri- 
vations of  the  lowly,  and  aiding  all  the  ills  that  flesh 
is  heir  to. 

This  same  yearning  was  inspiring  Marguerite  when 


214     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

she  came  away  from  her  lessons.  She  was  advancing 
from  one  overpowering  dread  to  another,  accepting  the 
first  rudiments  of  surgery  as  the  greatest  of  scientific 
marvels.  At  the  same  time,  she  was  astonished  at  the 
avidity  with  which  she  was  assimilating  these  hitherto 
unsuspected  mysteries.  Sometimes  with  a  funny  assump- 
tion of  assurance,  she  would  even  believe  she  had  mis- 
taken her  vocation. 

"Who  knows  but  what  I  was  born  to  be  a  famous  doc- 
tor?" she  would  exclaim. 

Her  great  fear  was  that  she  might  lose  her  self-control 
when  the  time  came  to  put  her  newly  acquired  knowl- 
edge into  practice.  To  see  herself  before  the  foul  odors 
of  decomposing  flesh,  to  contemplate  the  flow  of  blood — 
a  horrible  thing  for  her  who  had  always  felt  an  invincible 
repugnance  toward  all  the  unpleasant  conditions  of  ordi- 
nary life!  But  these  hesitations  were  short,  and  she 
was  suddenly  animated  by  a  dashing  energy.  These  were 
times  of  sacrifice.  Were  not  the  men  snatched  every 
day  from  the  comforts  of  sensuous  existence  to  endure 
the  rude  life  of  a  soldier?  .  .  .  She  would  be  a  soldier 
in  petticoats,  facing  pain,  battling  with  it,  plunging  her 
hands  into  putrefaction,  flashing  like  a  ray  of  sunlight 
into  the  places  where  soldiers  were  expecting  the  ap- 
proach of  death. 

She  proudly  narrated  to  Desnoyers  all  the  progress  that 
she  was  making  in  the  training  school,  the  complicated 
bandages  that  she  was  learning  to  adjust,  sometimes  over 
a  mannikin,  at  others  over  the  flesh  of  an  employee,  try- 
ing to  play  the  part  of  a  sorely  wounded  patient.  She, 
so  dainty,  so  incapable  in  her  own  home  of  the  slightest 
physical  effort,  was  learning  the  most  skilful  ways  of 
lifting  a  human  body  from  the  ground  and  carrying 
it  on  her  back.  Who  knew  but  that  she  might  render 
this  very  service  some  day  on  the  battlefield !     She  was 


NEW  LIFE  215 

ready  for  the  greatest  risks,  with  the  ignorant  audacity 
of  women  impelled  by  flashes  of  heroism.  All  her  ad- 
miration was  for  the  English  army  nurses,  slender  women 
of  nervous  vigor  whose  photographs  were  appearing  in 
the  papers,  wearing  pantaloons,  riding  boots  and  white 
helmets. 

Julio  listened  to  her  with  astonishment.  Was  this 
woman  really  Marguerite  ?  .  .  ,  War  was  obliterating  all 
her  winning  vanities.  She  was  no  longer  fluttering  about 
in  bird-like  fashion.  Her  feet  were  treading  the  earth 
with  resolute  firmness,  calm  and  secure  in  the  new 
strength  which  was  developing  within.  When  one  of 
his  caresses  would  remind  her  that  she  was  a  woman, 
she  would  always  say  the  same  thing, 

"What  luck  that  you  are  a  foreigner !  .  .  .  What  hap- 
piness to  know  that  you  do  not  have  to  go  to  war !" 

In  her  anxiety  for  sacrifice,  she  wanted  to  go  to  the 
battlefields,  and  yet  at  the  same  time,  she  was  rejoicing 
to  see  her  lover  exempt  from  military  duty.  This  pre- 
posterous lack  of  logic  was  not  gratefully  received  by 
Julio  but  irritated  him  as  an  unconscious  offense 

"One  might  suppose  that  she  was  protecting  me!"  he 
thought.  "She  is  the  man  and  rejoices  that  I,  the 
weak  comrade,  should  be  protected  from  danger.  .  .  . 
What  a  grotesque  situation !"  .  .  . 

Fortunately,  at  times  when  Marguerite  presented  her- 
self at  the  studio,  she  was  again  her  old  self,  making  him 
temporarily  forget  his  annoyance.  She  would  arrive 
with  the  same  joy  in  a  vacation  that  the  college  student 
or  the  employee  feels  on  a  holiday.  Responsibility  was 
teaching  her  to  know  the  value  of  time. 

"No  classes  to-day !"  she  would  call  out  on  entering; 
and  tossing  her  hat  on  a  divan,  she  would  begin  a  dance - 
step,  retreating  with  infantile  coquetry  from  the  arm^ 
of  her  lover. 


2i6     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

But  in  a  few  minutes  she  would  recover  her  customary 
gravity,  the  serious  look  that  had  become  habitual  with 
her  since  the  outbreak  of  hostilities.  She  spoke  often 
of  her  mother,  always  sad,  but  striving  to  hide  her  grief 
and  keeping  herself  up  in  the  hope  of  a  letter  from  her 
son ;  she  spoke,  too,  of  the  war,  commenting  on  the  latest 
events  with  the  rhetorical  optimism  of  the  official  dis- 
patches. She  could  describe  the  first  flag  taken  from 
the  enemy  as  minutely  as  though  it  were  a  garment  of 
unparalleled  elegance.  From  a  window,  she  had  seen 
the  Minister  of  War.  She  was  very  much  affected  when 
repeating  the  story  of  some  fugitive  Belgians  recently 
arrived  at  the  hospital.  They  were  the  only  patients  that 
she  had  been  able  to  assist  until  now.  Paris  was  not 
receiving  the  soldiers  wounded  in  battle;  by  order  of 
the  Government,  they  were  being  sent  from  the  front 
to  the  hospitals  in  the  South. 

She  no  longer  evinced  toward  Julio  the  resistance  of 
the  first  few  days.  Her  training  as  a  nurse  was  g^iving  her 
a  certain  passivity.  She  seemed  to  be  ignoring  material 
attractions,  stripping  them  of  the  spiritual  importance 
which  she  had  hitherto  attributed  to  them.  She  wanted 
to  make  Julio  happy,  although  her  mind  was  concen- 
trated on  other  matters. 

One  afternoon,  she  felt  the  necessity  of  communicat- 
ing certain  news  which  had  been  filling  her  mind  since 
the  day  before.  Springing  up  from  the  couch,  she 
hunted  for  her  handbag  which  contained  a  letter.  She 
wanted  to  read  it  again  to  tell  its  contents  to  somebody 
with  that  irresistible  impulse  which  forestalls  confes- 
sion. 

It  was  a  letter  which  her  brother  had  sent  her  from 
the  Vosges.  In  it  he  spoke  of  Laurier  more  than  of  him- 
self. They  belonged  to  different  batteries,  but  were  in 
the  same  division  and  had  taken  part  in  the  same  com- 


NEW  LIFE  217 

bats.  The  officer  was  filled  with  admiration  for  his 
former  brother-in-law.  Who  could  have  guessed  that  a 
future  hero  was  hidden  within  that  silent  and  tranquil 
engineer !  .  .  .  But  he  was  a  genuine  hero,  just  the  same ! 
All  the  officials  had  agreed  with  Marguerite's  brother 
on  seeing  how  calmly  he  fulfilled  his  duty,  facing  death 
with  the  same  coolness  as  though  he  were  in  his  factory 
near  Paris. 

He  had  asked  for  the  dangerous  post  of  lookout,  slip- 
ping as  near  as  possible  to  the  enemy's  lines  in  order  to 
verify  the  exactitude  of  the  artillery  discharge,  rectify- 
ing it  by  telephone.  A  German  shell  had  demolished 
the  house  on  the  roof  of  which  he  was  concealed,  and 
Laurier,  on  crawling  out  unhurt  from  the  ruins,  had  re- 
adjusted his  telephone  and  gone  tranquilly  on,  continu- 
ing the  same  work  in  the  shelter  of  a  nearby  grove.  His 
battery,  picked  out  by  the  enemy's  aeroplanes,  had  re- 
ceived the  concentrated  fire  of  the  artillery  opposite.  In 
a  few  minutes  all  the  force  were  rolling  on  the  ground 
— the  captain  and  many  soldiers  dead,  officers  wounded 
and  almost  all  the  gunners.  There  only  remained  as 
chief,  Laurier,  the  Impassive  (as  his  comrades  nick- 
named him),  and  aided  by  the  few  artillerymen  still  on 
their  feet,  he  continued  firing  under  a  rain  of  iron  and 
fire,  so  as  to  cover  the  retreat  of  a  battalion. 

"He  has  been  mentioned  twice  in  dispatches,"  Mar- 
guerite continued  reading.  "I  do  not  believe  that  it 
will  be  long  before  they  give  him  the  cross.  He  is 
valiant  in  every  way.  Who  would  have  supposed  all  this 
a  few  weeks  ago?"  .  .  . 

She  did  not  share  the  general  astonishment.  Living 
with  Laurier  had  many  times  shown  her  the  intrepidity 
of  his  character,  the  fearlessness  concealed  under  that 
placid  exterior.  On  that  account,  her  instincts  had 
warned  her  against  rousing  her  husband's  wrath  in  the 


2i8    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

first  days  of  her  infidelity.  She  still  remembered  the 
way  he  looked  the  night  he  surprised  her  leaving  Julio's 
home.  His  was  the  passion  that  kills,  and,  nevertheless, 
he  had  not  attempted  the  least  violence  with  her.  .  .  . 
The  memory  of  his  consideration  was  awakening  in  Mar- 
guerite a  sentiment  of  gratitude.  Perhaps  he  had  loved 
her  as  no  other  man  had. 

Her  eyes,  with  an  irresistible  desire  for  comparison, 
sought  Julio's,  admiring  his  youthful  grace  and  distinc- 
tion. The  image  of  Laurier,  heavy  and  ordinary,  came 
into  her  mind  as  a  consolation.  Certainly  the  officer 
whom  she  had  seen  at  the  station  when  saying  good- 
bye to  her  brother,  did  not  seem  to  her  Hke  her  old  hus- 
band. But  Marguerite  wished  to  forget  the  pallid  Heu- 
tenant  with  the  sad  countenance  who  had  passed  before 
her  eyes,  preferring  to  remember  him  only  as  the  manu- 
facturer preoccupied  with  profits  and  incapable  of  com- 
prehending what  she  was  accustomed  to  call  "the  deli- 
cate refinements  of  a  chic  woman."  Decidedly  Julio 
was  the  more  fascinating.  She  did  not  repent  of  her 
past.    She  did  not  wish  to  repent  of  it. 

And  her  loving  selfishness  made  her  repeat  once  more 
the  same  old  exclamation — "How  fortunate  that  you  are 
a  foreigner!  .  .  .  What  a  relief  to  know  that  you  are 
safe  from  the  dangers  of  war !" 

Julio  felt  the  usual  exasperation  at  hearing  this.  He 
came  very  near  to  closing  his  beloved's  mouth  with  his 
hand.  Was  she  trying  to  make  fun  of  him  ?  ...  It  was 
fairly  insulting  to  place  him  apart  from  other  men. 

Meanwhile,  with  blind  irrelevance,  she  persisted  in 
talking  about  Laurier,  commenting  upon  his  achieve- 
ments. 

"I  do  not  love  him,  I  never  have  loved  him.  Do  not 
look  so  cross!  How  could  the  poor  man  ever  be  com- 
pared  with  you?     You  must   admit,   though,   that  his 


NEW  LIFE  219 

new  existence  is  rather  interesting.  I  rejoice  in  his  brave 
deeds  as  though  an  old  friend  had  done  them,  a  family 
visitor  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time.  .  .  .  The 
poor  man  deserved  a  better  fate.  He  ought  to  have 
married  some  other  woman,  some  companion  more  on 
a  level  with  his  ideals.  ...  I  tell  you  that  I  really  pity 
him!" 

And  this  pity  was  so  intense  that  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  awakening  the  tortures  of  jealousy  in  her  lover. 
After  these  interviews,  Desnoyers  was  more  ill-tempered 
and  despondent  than  ever. 

"I  am  beginning  to  realize  that  we  are  in  a  false  po- 
sition," he  said  one  morning  to  Argensola.  "Life  is  go- 
ing to  become  increasingly  painful.  It  is  difficult  to  re- 
main tranquil,  continuing  the  same  old  existence  in  the 
midst  of  a  people  at  war." 

His  companion  had  about  come  to  the  same  conclusion. 
He,  too,  was  beginning  to  feel  that  the  life  of  a  young 
foreigner  in  Paris  was  insufferable,  now  that  it  was  so 
upset  by  war. 

"One  has  to  keep  showing  passports  all  the  time  in 
order  that  the  police  may  be  sure  that  they  have  not  dis- 
covered a  deserter.  In  the  street  car,  the  other  after- 
noon, I  had  to  explain  that  I  was  a  Spaniard  to  some 
girls  who  were  wondering  why  I  was  not  at  the  front. 
.  .  .  One  of  them,  as  soon  as  she  learned  my  nationality, 
asked  me  with  great  simplicity  why  I  did  not  offer  my- 
self as  a  volunteer.  .  .  .  Now  they  have  invented  a  word 
for  the  stay-at-homes,  calling  them  Les  Embusques,  the 
hidden  ones.  ...  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  the  ironical 
looks  shot  at  me  wherever  I  go ;  it  makes  me  wild  to 
be  taken  for  an  Embusque." 

A  flash  of  heroism  was  galvanizing  the  impressionable 
Bohemian.  Now  that  everybody  was  going  to  the  war, 
he.  was  wishing  to  do  the  same  thing.     He  was  not 


220    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

afraid  of  death;  the  only  thing  that  was  disturbing  him 
was  the  military  service,  the  uniform,  the  mechanical 
obedience  to  bugle-call,  the  blind  subservience  to  the 
chiefs.  Fighting  was  not  offering  any  difficulties  for  him 
but  his  nature  capriciously  resented  everything  in  the 
form  of  discipline.  The  foreign  groups  in  Paris  were 
trying  to  organize  each  its  own  legion  of  volunteers  and 
he,  too,  was  planning  his — a  battalion  of  Spaniards  and 
South  Americans,  reserving  naturally  the  presidency  of 
the  organizing  committee  for  himself,  and  later  the 
command  of  the  body. 

He  had  inserted  notices  in  the  papers,  making  the 
studio  in  the  rue  de  la  Pompe  the  recruiting  office.  In 
ten  days,  two  volunteers  had  presented  themselves;  a 
clerk,  shivering  in  midsummer,  who  stipulated  that  he 
should  be  an  officer  because  he  was  wearing  a  suitable 
jacket,  and  a  Spanish  tavern-keeper  who  at  the  very  out- 
set had  wished  to  rob  Argensola  of  his  command  on 
the  futile  pretext  that  he  was  a  soldier  in  his  youth  while 
the  Bohemian  was  only  an  artist.  Twenty  Spanish  bat- 
talions were  attempted  with  the  same  result  in  different 
parts  of  Paris.  Each  enthusiast  wished  to  be  commander 
of  the  others,  with  the  individual  haughtiness  and  aver- 
sion to  discipline  so  characteristic  of  the  race.  Finally 
the  future  generalissimos  decided  to  enlist  as  simple 
volunteers  .  .  .  but  in  a  French  regiment. 

"I  am  waiting  to  see  what  the  Garibaldis  do,"  said 
Argensola  modestly.     "Perhaps  I  may  go  with  them." 

This  glorious  name  made  military  service  conceivable 
to  him.  But  then  he  vacillated ;  he  would  certainly  have 
to  obey  somebody  in  this  body  of  volunteers,  and  he  did 
not  believe  in  an  obedience  that  was  not  preceded  by  long 
discussions.  .  .  .  What  next ! 

"Life  has  changed  in  a  fortnight,"  he  continued.  "It 
seems  as  if  we  were  living  in  another  planet ;  our  former 


NEW  LIFE  221 

achievements  are  not  appreciated.  Others,  most  ob- 
scure and  poor,  those  who  formerly  had  the  least  con- 
sideration, are  now  promoted  to  the  first  ranks.  The 
refined  man  of  complex  spirituality  has  disappeared  for 
who  knows  how  many  years!  ,  .  .  Now  the  simple- 
minded  man  climbs  triumphantly  to  the  top,  because, 
though  his  ideas  are  limited,  they  are  sure  and  he  knows 
how  to  obey.    We  are  no  longer  the  style." 

Desnoyers  assented.  It  was  so;  they  were  no  longer 
fashionable.  None  knew  that  better  than  he,  for  he 
who  was  once  the  sensation  of  the  day,  was  now  pass- 
ing as  a  stranger  among  the  very  people  who  a  few 
months  before  had  raved  over  him. 

"Your  reign  is  over,"  laughed  Argensola.  "The  fact 
that  you  are  a  handsome  fellow  doesn't  help  you  one 
bit  nowadays.  In  a  uniform  and  with  a  cross  on  my 
breast,  I  could  soon  get  the  best  of  you  in  a  rival  love 
affair.  In  times  of  peace,  the  officers  only  set  the  girls 
of  the  provinces  to  dreaming;  but  now  that  we  are  at 
war,  there  has  awakened  in  every  woman  the  ancestral 
enthusiasm  that  her  remote  grandmothers  used  to  feel 
for  the  strong  and  aggressive  beast.  .  .  .  The  high-born 
dames  who  a  few  months  ago  were  complicating  their 
desires  with  psychological  subleties,  are  now  admiring 
the  military  man  with  the  same  simplicity  tb^it  the  maid 
has  for  the  common  soldier.  Before  a  uniform,  they 
feel  the  humble  and  servile  enthusiasm  of  ^'he  female 
of  the  lower  animals  before  the  crests,  foretof»s  and  gay 
plumes  of  the  fighting  males.  Look  out,  m;^ter!  .  .  . 
We  shall  have  to  follow  the  new  course  of  events  or  re- 
sign ourselves  to  everlasting  obscurity.  The  tango  is 
dead." 

And  Desnoyers  agreed  that  truly  they  were  two  beings 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river  of  life  which  at  one  bound 
had  changed  its  course.    There  was  no  longer  any  place 


222     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

in  the  new  existence  for  that  poor  painter  of  souls,  nor 
for  that  hero  of  a  frivolous  life  who,  from  five  to  seven 
every  afternoon,  had  attained  the  triumphs  most  envied 
by  mankind. 


CHAPTER  in 


THE   RETREAT 


War  had  extended  one  of  its  antennae  even  to  the 
avenue  Victor  Hugo.  It  was  a  silent  war  in  which  the 
enemy,  bland,  shapeless  and  gelatinous,  seemed  con- 
stantly to  be  escaping  from  the  hands  only  to  renew  hos- 
tilities a  little  later  on. 

"I  have  Germany  in  my  own  house,"  growled  Marcelo 
Desnoyers. 

"Germany"  was  Dona  Elena,  the  wife  of  von  Hartrott. 
Why  had  not  her  son — that  professor  of  inexhaustible 
sufficiency  whom  he  now  belicA-ed  to  have  been  a  spy — 
taken  her  home  with  him?  For  what  sentimental  caprice 
had  she  wished  to  stay  with  her  sister,  losing  the  oppor- 
tunity of  returning  to  Berlin  before  the  frontiers  were 
closed  ? 

The  presence  of  this  woman  in  his  home  was  the 
cause  of  many  compunctions  and  alarms.  Fortunately, 
the  chauffeur  and  all  the  men-servants  were  in  the  army. 
The  two  chinas  received  an  order  in  a  threatening  tone. 
They  must  be  very  careful  when  talking  to  the  French 
maids — not  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  nationality  of 
Dofia  Elena's  husband  nor  to  the  residence  of  her  fam- 
ily. Dona  Elena  was  an  Argentinian.  But  in  spite  of  the 
silence  of  the  maids,  Don  Marcelo  was  always  in  fear  of 
some  outburst  of  exalted  patriotism,  and  that  his  wife's 
sister  might  suddenly  find  herself  confined  in  a  concen- 
tration camp  under  suspicion  of  having  dealings  with 
the  enemy. 

223 


224    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Frau  von  Hartrott  made  his  uneasiness  worse.  In- 
stead of  keeping  a  discreet  silence,  she  was  constantly  in- 
troducing discord  into  the  home  with  her  opinions. 

During  the  first  days  of  the  war,  she  kept  herself 
locked  in  her  room,  joining  the  family  only  when  sum- 
moned to  the  dining  room.  With  tightly  puckered  mouth 
and  an  absent-minded  air,  she  would  then  seat  herself 
at  the  table,  pretending  not  to  hear  Don  Marcelo's  verbal 
outpourings  of  enthusiasm.  He  enjoyed  describing  the 
departure  of  the  troops,  the  moving  scenes  in  the  streets 
and  at  the  stations,  commenting  on  events  with  an  optim- 
ism sure  of  the  first  news  of  the  war.  Two  things  were 
beyond  all  discussion.  The  bayonet  was  the  secret  of 
the  French,  and  the  Germans  were  shuddering  with  ter- 
ror before  its  fatal,  glistening  point.  .  .  .  The  seventy- 
five  had  proved  itself  a  unique  jewel,  its  shots  being 
absolutely  sure.  He  was  really  feeling  sorry  for  the  en- 
emy's artillery  since  its  projectiles  so  seldom  exploded 
even  when  well  aimed.  .  .  .  Furthermore,  the  French 
troops  had  entered  victoriously  into  Alsace;  many  little 
towns  were  already  theirs. 

"Now  it  is  as  it  was  in  the  '70's,"  he  would  exult,  bran- 
dishing his  fork  and  waving  his  napkin.  "We  are  going 
to  kick  them  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine — kick 
them!  .  .  .  That's  the  word." 

Chichi  always  agreed  gleefully  while  Dofia  Elena  was 
raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  as  though  silently  calling  upon 
somebody  hidden  in  the  ceiling  to  bear  witness  to  such 
errors  and  blasphemies. 

The  kind  Dofia  Luisa  always  sought  her  out  afterwards 
in  the  retirement  of  her  room,  believing  it  necessary  to 
give  sisterly  counsel  to  one  living  so  far  from  home. 
The  Romantica  did  not  maintain  her  austere  silence  be- 
fore the  sister  who  had  always  venerated  her  superior  in- 
struction ;  so  now  the  poor  lady  was  overwhelmed  with 


THE  RETREAT  225 

accounts  of  the  stupendous  forces  of  Germany,  enunci- 
ated with  all  the  authority  of  a  wife  of  a  great  Teutonic 
patriot,  and  a  mother  of  an  almost  celebrated  professor. 
According  to  her  graphic  picture,  millions  of  men  were 
now  surging  forth  in  enormous  streams,  thousands  of 
cannons  were  filing  by,  and  tremendous  mortars  like 
monstrous  turrets.  And  towering  above  all  this  vast 
machinery  of  destruction  was  a  man  who  alone  was 
worth  an  army,  a  being  who  knew  everything  and  could 
do  everything,  handsome,  intelligent,  and  infallible  as  a 
god — the  Emperor. 

"The  French  just  don't  know  what's  ahead  of  them," 
declared  Dofia  Elena.  "We  are  going  to  annihilate  them. 
It  is  merely  a  matter  of  two  weeks.  Before  August  is 
ended,  the  Emperor  will  have  entered  Paris." 

Sefiora  Desnoyers  was  so  greatly  impressed  by  these 
dire  prophecies  that  she  could  not  hide  them  from  her 
family.  Chichi  waxed  indignant  at  her  mother's  cred- 
ulity and  her  aunt's  Germanism.  Martial  fervor  was 
flaming  up  in  the  former  Peoncito.  Ay,  if  the  women 
could  only  go  to  war!  .  .  .  She  enjoyed  picturing  her- 
self on  horseback  in  command  of  a  regiment  of  dragoons, 
charging  the  enemy  with  other  Amazons  as  dashing  and 
buxom  as  she.  Then  her  fondness  for  skating  would 
predominate  over  her  tastes  for  the  cavalry,  and  she 
would  long  to  be  an  Alpine  hunter,  a  diable  bleu  among 
those  who  slid  on  long  runners,  with  musket  slung  across 
the  back  and  alpenstock  in  hand,  over  the  snowy  slopes 
of  the  Vosges. 

But  the  government  did  not  appreciate  the  valorous 
women,  and  she  could  obtain  no  other  part  in  the  war  but 
to  admire  the  uniform  of  her  true-love,  Rene  Lacour, 
converted  into  a  soldier.  The  senator's  son  certainly 
looked  beautiful.  He  was  tall  and  fair,  of  a  rather  femi- 
nine type,  recalling  his  dead  mother.     In  his  fiancee's 


226    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

opinion,  Rene  was  just  "a  little  sugar  soldier."  At  first 
she  had  been  very  proud  to  walk  the  streets  by  the  side 
of  this  warrior,  believing  that  his  uniform  had  greatly 
augmented  his  personal  charm,  but  little  by  little  a  revul- 
sion of  feeling  was  clouding  her  joy.  The  senatorial 
prince  was  nothing  but  a  common  soldier.  His  illus- 
trious father,  fearful  that  the  war  might  cut  off  forever 
the  dynasty  of  the  Lacours,  indispensable  to  the  welfare 
of  the  State,  had  had  his  son  mustered  into  the  auxiliary 
service  of  the  army.  By  this  arrangement,  his  heir  need 
not  leave  Paris,  ranking  about  as  high  as  those  who  were 
kneading  the  bread  or  mending  the  soldiers'  cloaks.  Only 
by  going  to  the  front  could  he  claim — as  a  student  of 
the  £cole  Centrale — his  title  of  sub-lieutenant  in  the  Ar- 
tillery Reserves. 

"What  happiness  for  me  that  you  have  to  stay  in 
Paris!  How  delighted  I  am  that  you  are  just  a  pri- 
vate! .  .  ." 

And  yet,  at  the  same  time.  Chichi  was  thinking  en- 
viously of  her  friends  whose  lovers  and  brothers  were 
officers.  They  could  parade  the  streets,  escorted  by  a 
gold-trimmed  kepis  that  attracted  the  notice  of  the  pass- 
ers-by and  the  respectful  salute  of  the  lower  ranks. 

Each  time  that  Dona  Luisa,  terrified  by  the  fore- 
casts of  her  sister,  undertook  to  communicate  her  dis- 
may to  her  daughter,  the  girl  would  rage  up  and  down, 
exclaiming : — 

"What  lies  my  aunt  tells  you !  .  .  .  Since  her  husband 
is  a  German,  she  sees  everything  as  he  wishes  it  to  be. 
Papa  knows  more ;  Rene's  father  is  better  informed  about 
these  things.  We  are  going  to  give  them  a  thorough 
hiding!  What  fun  it  will  be  when  they  hit  my  uncle 
and  all  my  snippy  cousins  in  Berlin  !  .  .  ." 

"Hush,"  groaned  her  mother.  "Do  not  talk  such  non- 
sense.   The  war  has  turned  you  as  crazy  as  your  father.'' 


THE  RETREAT  227 

The  good  lady  was  scandalized  at  hearing  the  out- 
burst of  savage  desires  that  the  mere  mention  of  the 
Kaiser  always  aroused  in  her  daughter.  In  times  of 
peace.  Chichi  had  rather  admired  this  personage.  "He's 
not  so  bad-looking,"  she  had  commented,  "but  with  a 
very  ordinary  smile."  Now  all  her  wrath  was  concen- 
trated upon  him.  The  thousands  of  women  that  were 
weeping  through  his  fault!  The  mothers  without  sons, 
the  wives  without  husbands,  the  poor  children  left  in  the 
burning  towns !  .  .  .  Ah,  the  vile  wretch !  .  .  .  And  she 
would  brandish  her  knife  of  the  old  Peoncito  days — a 
dagger  with  silver  handle  and  sheath  richly  chased,  a 
gift  that  her  grandfather  had  exhumed  from  some  for- 
gotten souvenirs  of  his  childhood  in  an  old  valise.  The 
very  first  German  that  she  came  across  was  doomed  to 
death.  Dona  Luisa  was  terrified  to  find  her  flourishing 
this  weapon  before  her  dressing  mirror.  She  was  no 
longer  yearning  to  be  a  cavalryman  nor  a  diable  bleu. 
She  would  be  entirely  content  if  they  would  leave  her 
alone  in  some  closed  space  with  the  detested  monster. 
In  just  five  minutes  she  would  settle  the  universal  con- 
flict. 

"Defend  yourself,  Boche,"  she  would  shriek,  standing 
at  guard  as  in  her  childhood  she  had  seen  the  peons  doing 
on  the  ranch. 

And  with  a  knife-thrust  above  and  below,  she  would 
pierce  his  imperial  vitals.  Immediately  there  resounded 
in  her  imagination,  shouts  of  joy,  the  gigantic  sigh  of 
millions  of  women  freed  at  last  from  the  bloody  night- 
mare— thanks  to  her  playing  the  role  of  Judith  or  Char- 
lotte Corday,  or  a  blend  of  all  the  heroic  women  who  had 
killed  for  the  common  weal.  Her  savage  fury  made  her 
continue  her  imaginary  slaughter,  dagger  in  hand.  Sec- 
ond stroke ! — the  Crown  Prince  rolling  to  one  side  and 
his  head  to  the  other.     A  rain  of  dagger  thrusts! — all 


228    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  invincible  generals  of  whom  her  aunt  had  been  boast- 
ing fleeing  with  their  insides  in  their  hands — and  bring- 
ing up  the  rear,  that  fawning  lackey  who  wished  to  re- 
ceive the  same  things  as  those  of  highest  rank — ^the  uncle 
from  Berlin.  .  .  .  Ay,  if  she  could  only  get  the  chance 
to  make  these  longings  a  reality ! 

"You  are  mad,"  protested  her  mother.  "Completely 
mad !   How  can  a  ladylike  girl  talk  in  such  a  way  ?"  .  .  . 

Surprising  her  niece  in  the  ecstasy  of  these  delirious 
ravings,  Doiia  Elena  would  raise  her  eyes  to  heaven,  ab- 
staining thenceforth  from  communicating  her  opinions, 
reserving  them  wholly  for  the  mother. 

Don  Marcelo's  indignation  took  another  bound  when 
his  w^ife  repeated  to  him  the  news  from  her  sister.  All  a 
lie !  .  .  .  The  war  was  progressing  finely.  On  the  East- 
ern frontier  the  French  troops  had  advanced  through 
the  interior  of  Alsace  and  Lorraine. 

"But — Belgium  is  invaded,  isn't  it  ?"  asked  Doiia  Luisa. 
"And  those  poor  Belgians?" 

Desnoyers  retorted  indignantly. 

"That  invasion  of  Belgium  is  treason.  .  .  .  And  a 
treason  never  amounts  to  anything  among  decent  peo- 
ple." 

He  said  it  in  all  good  faith  as  though  war  were  a 
duel  in  which  the  traitor  was  henceforth  ruled  out  and 
unable  to  continue  his  outrages.  Besides,  the  heroic 
resistance  of  Belgium  was  nourishing  the  most  absurd 
illusions  in  his  heart.  The  Belgians  were  certainly  su- 
pernatural men  destined  to  the  most  stupendous  achieve- 
ments. .  .  .  And  to  think  that  heretofore  he  had  never 
taken  this  plucky  little  nation  into  account !  .  .  .  For 
several  days,  he  considered  Liege  a  holy  city  before 
whose  walls  the  Teutonic  power  would  be  completely 
confounded.  Upon  the  fall  of  Liege,  his  unquenchable 
faith  sought  another  handle.    There  were  still  remaining 


THE  RETREAT  229 

many  other  Lieges  in  the  interior.  The  Germans  might 
force  their  way  further  in ;  then  we  would  see  how  many 
of  them  ever  succeeded  in  getting  out.  The  entry  into 
Brussels  did  not  disquiet  him.  An  unprotected  city !  .  .  . 
Its  surrender  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  Now  the 
Belgians  would  be  better  able  to  defend  Antwerp. 
Neither  did  the  advance  of  the  Germans  toward  the 
French  frontier  alarm  him  at  all.  In  vain  his  sister-in- 
law,  with  malicious  brevity,  mentioned  in  the  dining-room 
the  progress  of  the  invasion,  so  confusedly  outlined  in 
the  daily  papers.  The  Germans  were  already  at  the 
frontier. 

"And  what  of  that  ?"  yelled  Don  Marcelo.  "Soon  they 
will  meet  someone  to  talk  to!  Joffre  is  going  to  meet 
them.  Our  armies  are  in  the  East,  in  the  very  place 
where  they  ought  to  be,  on  the  true  frontier,  at  the  door 
of  their  home.  But  they  have  to  deal  with  a  treacherous 
and  cowardly  opponent  that  instead  of  marching  face  to 
face,  leaps  the  walls  of  the  corral  like  sheep-stealers. 
.  .  .  Their  underhand  tricks  won't  do  them  any  good, 
though!  The  French  are  already  in  Belgium  and  ad- 
justing the  accounts  of  the  Germans.  We  shall  smash 
them  so  effectually  that  never  again  will  they  be  able 
to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  world.  And  that  accursed 
individual  with  the  rampant  moustache  we  are  going  to 
put  in  a  cage,  and  exhibit  in  the  place  de  la  Concorde!" 

Inspired  by  the  paternal  braggadocio.  Chichi  also 
launched  forth  exultingly  an  imaginary  series  of  aveng- 
ing torments  and  insults  as  a  complement  to  this  Im- 
perial Exhibition. 

These  allusions  to  the  Emperor  aggravated  Frau  von 
Hartrott  more  than  anything  else.  In  the  first  days  of 
the  war,  her  sister  had  surprised  her  weeping  before 
the  newspaper  caricatures  and  leaflets  sold  in  the  streets. 

"Such  an  excellent  man  ...  so  knightly  .  .  .  such  a 


230     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

good  father  to  his  family !  He  wasn't  to  blame  for  any- 
thing. It  was  his  enemies  who  forced  him  to  assume  the 
offensive." 

Her  veneration  for  exalted  personages  was  making  her 
take  the  attacks  upon  this  admired  grandee  as  though 
they  were  directed  against  her  own  family. 

One  night  in  the  dining  room,  she  abandoned  her 
tragic  silence.  Certain  sarcasms,  shot  by  Desnoyers  at 
her  hero,  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes,  and  this  senti- 
mental indulgence  turned  her  thoughts  upon  her  sons 
who  were  undoubtedly  taking  part  in  the  invasion. 

Her  brother-in-law  was  longing  for  the  extermination 
of  all  the  enemy.  "May  every  barbarian  be  extermi- 
nated! .  .  .  every  one  of  the  bandits  in  pointed  helmets 
who  have  just  burned  Lou  vain  and  other  towns,  shoot- 
ing defenceless  peasants,  old  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren! .  .  ." 

"You  forget  that  I  am  a  mother,"  sobbed  Frau  von 
Hartrotl.  "You  forget  that  among  those  whose  extermi- 
nation you  are  imploring,  are  my  sons." 

Her  violent  weeping  made  Desnoyers  realize  more  than 
ever  the  abyss  yawning  between  him  and  this  woman 
lodged  in  his  own  house.  His  resentment,  however,  over- 
leapt  family  considerations.  .  .  .  She  might  weep  for  her 
sons  all  she  wanted  to;  that  was  her  right.  But  these 
sons  were  aggressors  and  wantonly  doing  evil.  It  was 
the  other  mothers  who  were  inspiring  his  pity — those 
who  were  living  tranquilly  in  their  smiling  little  Bel- 
gian towns  when  their  sons  were  suddenly  shot  down, 
their  daughters  violated  and  their  houses  burned  to  the 
ground. 

As  though  this  description  of  the  horrors  of  war  were 
a  fresh  insult  to  her.  Dona  Elena  wept  harder  than  ever. 
What  falsehoods !  The  Kaiser  was  an  excellent  man. 
his  soldiers  were  gentlemen,  the  German  army  was  a 


THE  RETREAT  231 

model  of  civilization  and  goodness.  Her  husband  had 
belonged  to  this  army,  her  sons  were  marching  in  its 
ranks.  And  she  knew  her  sons — well-bred  and  incapable 
of  wrong-doing.  These  Belgian  calumnies  she  could  no 
longer  listen  to  .  .  .  and,  with  dramatic  abandon,  she 
flung  herself  into  the  arms  of  her  sister. 

Sefior  Desnoyers  raged  against  the  fate  that  con- 
demned him  to  Hve  under  the  same  roof  with  this  wom- 
an. What  an  unfortunate  complication  for  the  family ! 
.  .  .  and  the  frontiers  were  closed,  making  it  impossible 
to  get  rid  of  her ! 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  thundered.  "Let  us  talk  no  more 
about  it.  We  shall  never  reach  an  understanding,  for 
we  belong  to  two  different  worlds.  It's  a  great  pity 
that  you  can't  go  back  to  your  own  people." 

After  that,  he  refrained  from  mentioning  the  war  in 
his  sister-in-law's  presence.  Chichi  was  the  only  one 
keeping  up  her  aggressive  and  noisy  enthusiasm.  Upon 
reading  in  the  papers  the  news  of  the  shootings,  sack- 
ings, burning  of  cities,  and  the  dolorous  flight  of  those 
who  had  seen  their  all  reduced  to  ashes,  she  again  felt 
the  necessity  of  assuming  the  role  of  lady-assassin.  Ay, 
if  she  could  only  once  get  her  hands  on  one  of  those 
bandits  1  .  .  .  What  did  the  men  amount  to  anyway  if 
they  couldn't  exterminate  the  whole  lot  ?  .  .  . 

Then  she  would  look  at  Rene  in  his  exquisitely  fresh 
uniform,  sweet-mannered  and  smiling  as  though  all  war 
meant  to  him  was  a  mere  change  of  attire,  and  she  would 
exclaim  enigmatically  : 

"What  luck  that  you  will  never  have  to  go  to  the 
front!  .  .  .  How  fine  that  you  don't  run  any  risks!" 

And  her  lover  would  accept  these  words  as  but  another 
proof  of  her  affectionate  interest. 

One  day  Don  Marcelo  was  able  to  appreciate  the  hor- 
rors of  the  war  without  leaving  Paris.    Three  thousand 


232    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Belgian  refugees  were  quartered  provisionally  in  the  cir- 
cus before  being  distributed  among  the  provinces.  When 
Desnoyers  entered  this  place,  he  saw  in  the  vestibule  the 
same  posters  which  had  been  flaunting  their  spectacular 
gayeties  when  he  had  visited  it  a  few  months  before 
with  his  family. 

Now  he  noticed  the  odor  from  a  sick  and  miserable 
multitude  crowded  together — like  the  exhalation  from  a 
prison  or  poorhouse  infirmary.  He  saw  a  throng  that 
seemed  crazy  or  stupefied  with  grief.  They  did  not 
know  exactly  where  they  were;  they  had  come  thither, 
they  didn't  know  how.  The  terrible  spectacle  of  the  in- 
vasion was  still  so  persistent  in  their  minds  that  it  left 
room  for  no  other  impression.  They  were  still  seeing 
the  helmeted  men  in  their  peaceful  hamlets,  their  homes 
in  flames,  the  soldiery  firing  upon  those  who  were  flee- 
ing, the  mutilated  women  done  to  death  by  incessant 
adulterous  assault,  the  old  men  burned  alive,  the  chil- 
dren stabbed  in  their  cradles  by  human  beasts  inflamed 
by  alcohol  and  license.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  octogenarians 
were  weeping  as  they  told  how  the  soldiers  of  a  civilized 
nation  were  cutting  off  the  breasts  from  the  women  in 
order  to  nail  them  to  the  doors,  how  they  had  passed 
around  as  a  trophy  a  new-born  babe  spiked  on  a  bayonet, 
how  they  had  shot  aged  men  in  the  very  armchair  in 
which  they  were  huddled  in  their  sorrowful  weakness, 
torturing  them  first  with  their  jests  and  taunts. 

They  had  fled  blindly,  pursued  by  fire  and  shot,  as 
crazed  with  terror  as  the  people  of  the  middle  ages  try- 
ing not  to  be  ridden  down  by  the  hordes  of  galloping 
Huns  and  Mongols.  And  this  flight  had  been  across  the 
country  in  its  loveliest  festal  array,  in  the  most  productive 
of  months,  when  the  earth  was  bristling  with  ears  of 
grain,  when  the  August  sky  was  most  brilliant,  and  when 


THE  RETREAT  23s 

^he  birds  were  greeting  the  opulent  harvest  with  their 
glad  songs! 

In  that  circus,  filled  with  the  wandering  crowds,  the 
immense  crime  was  living  again.  The  children  were  cry- 
ing with  a  sound  like  the  bleating  of  lambs;  the  men 
were  looking  wildly  around  with  terrified  eyes ;  the  fren- 
zied women  were  howling  like  the  insane.  Families  had 
become  separated  in  the  terror  of  flight.  A  mother  of 
five  little  ones  now  had  but  one.  The  parents,  as  they 
reairzed  the  number  missing,  were  thinking  with  anguish 
of  those  who  had  disappeared.  Would  they  ever  find 
them  again?  .  .  .  Or  were  they  already  dead?  .  .  . 

Don  Marcelo  returned  home,  grinding  his  teeth  and 
waving  his  cane  in  an  alarming  manner.  Ah,  the  ban- 
dits !  ...  If  only  his  sister-in-law  could  change  her  sex ! 
Why  wasn't  she  a  man?  ...  It  would  be  better  still  if 
she  could  suddenly  assume  the  form  of  her  husband,  von 
Hartrott.  What  an  interesting  interview  the  two 
brothers-in-law  would  have !  .  .  . 

The  war  was  awakening  religious  sentiment  in  the  men 
and  increasing  the  devotion  of  the  women.  The  churches 
were  filled.  Doiia  Luisa  was  no  longer  confining  herself 
to  those  of  her  neighborhood.  With  the  courage  induced 
by  extraordinary  events,  she  was  traversing  Paris  afoot 
and  going  from  the  Madeleine  to  Notre  Dame,  or  to  the 
Sacre  Caur  on  the  heights  of  Montmartre.  Religious 
festivals  were  now  thronged  like  popular  assemblies.  The 
preachers  were  tribunes.  Patriotic  enthusiasm  inter- 
rupted many  a  sermon  with  applause. 

Each  morning  on  opening  the  papers,  before  reading 
the  war  news,  Senora  Desnoyers  would  hunt  other  no- 
tices. "Where  was  Father  Amette  going  to  be  to-day?"' 
Then,  under  the  arched  vaultings  of  that  temple,  would 
she  unite  her  voice  with  the  devout  chorus  imploring 
supernatural  intervention.     "Lord,  save  France!"     Pa- 


234    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

triotic  religiosity  was  putting  Sainte  Genevieve  at  the 
head  of  the  favored  ones,  so  from  all  these  fiestas.  Dona 
Luisa,  tremulous  with  faith,  would  return  in  expectation 
of  a  miracle  similar  to  that  which  the  patron  saint  of 
Paris  had  worked  before  the  invading  hordes  of  At- 
tila. 

Doiia  Elena  was  also  visiting  the  churches,  but  those 
nearest  the  house.  Her  brother-in-law  saw  her  one  after- 
noon entering  Satnt-Honoree  d'Eylau.  The  building  was 
filled  with  the  faithful,  and  on  the  altar  was  a  sheaf  of 
flags — France  and  the  allied  nations.  The  imploring 
crowd  was  not  composed  entirely  of  women.  Desnoyers 
saw  men  of  his  age,  pompous  and  grave,  moving  their 
lips  and  fixing  steadfast  eyes  on  the  altar  on  which  were 
reflected  like  lost  stars,  the  flames  of  the  candles.  And 
again  he  felt  envy.  They  were  fathers  who  were  re- 
calling their  childhood  prayers,  thinking  of  their  sons 
in  battle.  Don  Marcelo,  who  had  always  considered 
religion  with  indifference,  suddenly  recognized  the  ne- 
cessity of  faith.  He  wanted  to  pray  like  the  others, 
with  a  vague,  indefinite  supplication,  including  all  be- 
ings who  were  struggling  and  dying  for  a  land  that  he 
had  not  tried  to  defend. 

He  was  scandalized  to  see  von  Hartrott's  wife  kneel- 
ing among  these  people  raising  her  eyes  to  the  cross  in 
a  look  of  anguished  entreaty.  She  was  begging  heaven 
to  protect  her  husband,  the  German  who  perhaps  at  this 
moment  was  concentrating  all  his  devilish  faculties  on  the 
best  organization  for  crushing  the  weak ;  she  was  praying 
for  her  sons,  officers  of  the  King  of  Prussia,  who 
revolver  in  hand  were  entering  villages  and  farmlands, 
driving  before  them  a  horror-stricken  crowd,  leaving  be- 
hind them  fire  and  death.  And  these  orisons  were  going 
to  mingle  with  those  of  the  mothers  who  were  praying 
for  the  youth  trying  to  check  the  onslaught  of  the  bar- 


THE  RETREAT  235. 

barians — with  the  petitions  of  these  earnest  men,  rigid 
in  their  tragic  grief !  .  .  . 

He  had  to  make  a  great  effort  not  to  protest  aloud, 
and  he  left  the  church.  His  sister-in-law  had  no  right 
to  kneel  there  among  those  people. 

"They  ought  to  put  her  out !"  he  growled  indignantly. 
"She  is  compromising  God  with  her  absurd  entreaties." 

But  in  spite  of  his  annoyance,  he  had  to  endure  her 
living  in  his  household,  and  at  the  same  time  had  taken 
great  pains  to  prevent  her  nationality  being  known  out- 
side. 

It  was  a  severe  trial  for  Don  Marcelo  to  be  obliged  ta 
keep  silent  when  at  table  with  his  family.  He  had  to 
avoid  the  hysterics  of  his  sister-in-law  who  promptly 
burst  into  sighs  and  sobs  at  the  slightest  allusion  to  her 
hero;  and  he  feared  equally  the  complaints  of  his  wife, 
always  ready  to  defend  her  sister,  as  though  she  were 
the  victim.  .  .  .  That  a  man  in  his  own  home  should 
have  to  curb  his  tongue  and  speak  tactfully!  .  .  . 

The  only  satisfaction  permitted  him  was  to  announce 
the  military  moves.  The  French  had  entered  Belgium. 
"It  appears  that  the  Bodies  have  had  a  good  set-back." 
The  slightest  clash  of  cavalry,  a  simple  encounter  with 
the  advance  troops,  he  would  glorify  as  a  decisive  victory. 
"In  Lorraine,  too,  we  are  making  great  headway !"  .  .  . 
But  suddenly  the  fountain  of  his  bubbling  optimism 
seemed  to  become  choked  up.  To  judge  from  the  pe- 
riodicals, nothing  extraordinary  was  occurring.  They 
continued  publishing  war-stories  so  as  to  keep  enthusiasm 
at  fever-heat,  but  nothing  definite.  The  Government,  too, 
was  issuing  communications  of  vague  and  rhetorical  ver- 
bosity. Desnoyers  became  alarmed,  his  instinct  warning 
him  of  danger.  "There  is  something  wrong,"  he  thought.. 
"There's  a  spring  broken  somewhere !" 

This  lack  of  encouraging  news  coincided  exactly  with 


236    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  sudden  rise  in  Dona  Elena's  spirits.  With  whom  had 
that  woman  been  talking?  Whom  did  she  meet  when 
she  was  on  the  street?  .  .  .  Without  dropping  her  pose 
as  a  martyr,  with  the  same  woebegone  look  and  droop- 
ing mouth,  she  was  talking,  and  talking  treacherously. 
The  torment  of  Don  Marcelo  in  being  obliged  to  listen 
to  the  enemy  harbored  within  his  gates !  .  .  .  The  French 
had  been  vanquished  in  Lorraine  and  in  Belgium  at  the 
same  time.  A  body  of  the  army  had  deserted  the  col- 
ors ;  many  prisoners,  many  cannon  were  captured.  "Lies ! 
German  exaggerations !"  howled  Desnoyers.  And  Chichi 
with  the  derisive  ha-ha's  of  an  insolent  girl,  drowned  out 
the  triumphant  communications  of  the  aunt  from  Ber- 
lin. "I  don't  know,  of  course,"  said  the  unwelcome 
lodger  with  mock  humility.  "Perhaps  it  is  not  authentic. 
I  have  heard  it  said."  Her  host  was  furious.  Where 
had  she  heard  it  said?  Who  was  giving  her  such 
news?  .  .  . 

And  in  order  to  ventilate  his  wrath,  he  broke  forth  into 
tirades  against  the  enemy's  espionage,  against  the  care- 
lessness of  the  police  force  in  permitting  so  many  Ger- 
mans to  remain  hidden  in  Paris.  Then  he  suddenly  be- 
came quiet,  thinking  of  his  own  behavior  in  this  line. 
He,  too,  was  involuntarily  contributing  toward  the  main- 
tenance and  support  of  the  foe. 

The  fall  of  the  ministry  and  the  constitution  of  a  gov- 
ernment of  national  defense  made  it  apparent  that  some- 
thing very  important  must  have  taken  place.  The  alarms 
and  tears  of  Doiia  Luisa  increased  his  nervousness.  The 
good  lady  was  no  longer  returning  from  the  churches, 
cheered  and  strengthened.  Her  confidential  talks  with 
her  sister  were  filling  her  with  a  terror  that  she  tried  in 
vain  to  communicate  to  her  husband.  "All  is  lost.  .  .  . 
Elena  is  the  only  one  that  knows  the  truth." 

Desnoyers  went  in  search  of   Senator  Lacour.     He 


THE  RETREAT  237 

would  know  all  the  ministers;  no  one  could  be  better 
informed.  "Yes,  my  friend,"  said  the  important  man 
sadly.  "Two  great  losses  at  Morhange  and  Charleroi, 
at  the  East  and  the  North.  The  enemy  is  going  to  in- 
vade French  soil!  .  .  .  But  our  army  is  intact,  and  will 
retreat  in  good  order.  Good  fortune  may  still  be  ours. 
A  great  calamity,  but  all  is  not  lost." 

Preparations  for  the  defense  of  Paris  were  being 
pushed  forward  .  .  .  rather  late.  The  forts  were  sup- 
plying themselves  with  new  "cannon.  Houses,  built  in  the 
danger  zone  in  the  piping  times  of  peace,  were  now  dis- 
appearing under  the  blows  of  the  official  demolition. 
The  trees  on  the  outer  avenues  were  being  felled  in  or- 
der to  enlarge  the  horizon.  Barricades  of  sacks  of  earth 
and  tree  trunks  were  heaped  at  the  doors  of  the  old 
walls.  The  curious  were  skirting  the  suburbs  in  order 
to  gaze  at  the  recently  dug  trenches  and  the  barbed 
wire  fences.  The  Bois  de  Boulogne  was  filled  with  herds 
of  cattle.  Near  heaps  of  dry  alfalfa  steers  and  sheep 
were  grouped  in  the  green  meadows.  Protection  against 
famine  was  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  a  people  still  re- 
membering the  suffering  of  1870.  Every  night,  the  street 
lighting  was  less  and  less.  The  sky,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  streaked  incessantly  by  the  shafts  from  the  search- 
lights. Fear  of  aerial  invasion  was  increasing  the  public 
uneasiness.  Timid  people  were  speaking  of  Zeppelins, 
attributing  to  them  irresistible  powers,  with  all  the  exag- 
geration that  accompanies  mysterious  dangers. 

In  her  panic.  Dona  Luisa  greatly  distressed  her  hus- 
band, who  was  passing  the  days  in  continual  alarm,  yet 
trying  to  put  heart  into  his  trembling  and  anxious  wife. 
"They  are  going  to  come,  Marcelo;  my  heart  tells  me 
so.  The  girl !  .  .  .  the  girl !"  She  was  accepting  blindly 
all  the  statements  made  by  her  sister,  the  only  thing  that 
comforted  her  being  the  chivalry  and  discipline  of  those 


238    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

troops  to  which  her  nephews  belonged.  The  news  of  the 
atrocities  committed  against  the  women  of  Belgium  were 
received  with  the  same  credulity  as  the  enemy's  advances 
announced  by  Elena.  "Our  girl,  Marcelo.  .  .  .  Our 
girl !"  And  the  girl,  object  of  so  much  solicitude,  would 
laugh  with  the  assurance  of  vigorous  youth  on  hearing 
of  her  mother's  anxiety.  "Just  let  the  shameless  fellows 
come !  I  shall  take  great  pleasure  in  seeing  them  face  to 
face !"  And  she  clenched  her  right  hand  as  though  it  al- 
ready clutched  the  avenging  knife. 

The  father  became  tired  of  this  situation.  He  still  had 
one  of  his  monumental  automobiles  that  an  outside  chauf- 
feur could  manage.  Senator  Lacour  obtained  the  neces- 
sary passports  and  Desnoyers  gave  his  wife  her  orders 
in  a  tone  thr.t  admitted  of  no  remonstrance.  They  must 
go  to  Biarritz  or  to  some  of  the  summer  resorts  in  the 
north  of  Spain.  Almost  all  the  South  American  families 
had  already  gone  in  the  same  direction.  Dofia  Luisa 
tried  to  object.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  separate 
herself  from  her  husband.  Never  before,  in  their  many 
years  of  married  life,  had  they  once  been  separated.  But 
a  harsh  negative  from  Don  Marcelo  cut  her  pleadings 
short.  He  would  remain.  Then  the  poor  senora  ran  to 
the  rue  de  la  Pompe.  Her  son !  .  .  .  Julio  scarcely  lis- 
tened to  his  mother.  Ay !  he,  too,  would  stay.  So  finally 
the  imposing  automobile  lumbered  toward  the  South  car- 
rying Dona  Luisa,  her  sister  who  hailed  with  delight  this 
withdrawal  before  the  admired  troops  of  the  Emperor, 
and  Chichi,  pleased  that  the  war  was  necessitating  an  ex- 
cursion to  the  fashionable  beaches  frequented  by  her 
friends. 

Don  Marcelo  was  at  last  alone.  The  two  coppery 
maids  had  followed  by  rail  the  flight  of  their  mistresses. 
At  first  the  old  man  felt  a  little  bewildered  by  this  soli- 
tude, which  obliged  him  to  eat  uncomfortable  meals  in 


THE  RETREAT  239 

a  restaurant  and  pass  the  nights  in  enormous  and  de- 
serted rooms  still  bearing  traces  -of  their  former  occu- 
pants. The  other  apartments  in  the  building  had  also 
been  vacated.  All  the  tenants  were  foreigners,  who  had 
discreetly  decamped,  or  French  families  surprised  by  the 
war  when  summering  at  their  country  seats. 

Instinctively  he  turned  his  steps  toward  the  rue  de  la 
Pompe  gazing  from  afar  at  the  studio  windows.  What 
was  his  son  doing  ?  .  .  .  Undoubtedly  continuing  his  gay 
and  useless  life.  Such  men  only  existed  for  their  own 
selfish  folly. 

Desnoyers  felt  satisfied  with  the  stand  he  had  taken. 
To  follow  the  family  would  be  sheer  cowardice.  The 
memory  of  his  youthful  flight  to  South  America  was 
sufficient  martyrdom;  he  would  finish  his  life  with  all 
the  compensating  bravery  that  he  could  muster.  "No, 
they  will  not  come,"  he  said  repeatedly,  with  the  opti- 
mism of  enthusiasm.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  they  will 
never  reach  Paris.  And  even  if  they  do  come!"  .  .  . 
The  absence  of  his  family  brought  him  a  joyous  valor 
and  a  sense  of  bold  youthfulness.  Although  his  age 
might  prevent  his  going  to  war  in  the  open  air,  he  could 
still  fire  a  gun,  immovable  in  a  trench,  without  fear  of 
death.  Let  them  come !  .  .  .  He  was  longing  for  the 
struggle  with  the  anxiety  of  a  punctilious  business  man 
wishing  to  cancel  a  former  debt  as  soon  as  possible. 

In  the  streets  of  Paris  he  met  many  groups  of  fugi- 
tives. They  were  from  the  North  and  East  of  France, 
and  had  escaped  before  the  German  advance.  Of  all 
the  tales  told  by  this  despondent  crowd — not  knowing 
where  to  go  and  dependent  upon  the  charity  of  the  peo- 
ple— he  was  most  impressed  with  those  dealing  with  the 
disregard  of  property.  Shootings  and  assassinations 
made  him  clench  his  fists,  with  threats  of  vengeance ;  but 
the  robberies  authorized  by  the  heads,  the  wholesale  sack- 


240     FOUR  HORSEMEK  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ings  by  superior  order,  followed  by  fire,  appeared  to  him 
so  unheard-of  that  he  was  silent  with  stupefaction,  his 
speech  seeming  to  be  temporarily  paralyzed.  And  a 
people  with  laws  could  wage  war  in  this  fashion,  like  a 
tribe  of  Indians  going  to  combat  in  order  to  rob !  .  .  . 
His  adoration  of  property  rights  made  him  beside  him- 
self with  wrath  at  these  sacrileges. 

He  began  to  worry  about  his  castle  at  Villeblanche. 
All  that  he  owned  in  Paris  suddenly  seemed  to  him  of 
slight  importance  to  what  he  had  in  his  historic  mansion. 
His  best  paintings  were  there,  adorning  the  gloomy  sa- 
lons ;  there,  too,  the  furnishings  captured  from  the  anti- 
quarians after  an  auctioneering  battle,  and  the  crystal 
cabinets,  the  tapestries,  the  silver  services. 

He  mentally  reviewed  all  of  these  objects,  not  letting 
a  single  one  escape  his  inventory.  Things  that  he  had 
forgotten  came  surging  up  in  his  memory,  and  the  fear 
of  losing  them  seemed  to  give  them  greater  lustre,  in- 
creasing their  size,  and  intensifying  their  value.  All  the 
riches  of  Villeblanche  were  concentrated  in  one  certain 
acquisition  which  Desnoyers  admired  most  of  all;  for, 
to  his  mind,  it  stood  for  all  the  glory  of  his  immense 
fortune — in  fact,  the  most  luxurious  appointment  that 
even  a  millionaire  could  possess. 

"My  golden  bath,"  he  thought.  "I  have  there  my  tub 
of  gold." 

This  bath  of  priceless  metal  he  had  procured,  after 
much  financial  wrestling,  from  an  auction,  and  he  con- 
sidered the  purchase  the  culminating  achievement  of  his 
wealth.  No  one  knew  exactly  its  origin;  perhaps  it  had 
been  the  property  of  luxurious  princes ;  perhaps  it  owed 
its  existence  to  the  caprice  of  a  demi-mondaine  fond  of 
display.  He  and  his  had  woven  a  legend  around  this 
golden  cavity  adorned  with  lions'  claws,  dolphins  and 
busts  of   naiads.     Undoubtedly   it   was   once   a   king's/ 


THE  RETREAT  241 

Chichi  gravely  affirmed  that  it  had  been  Marie  An- 
toinette's, and  the  entire  family  thought  that  the  home  on 
the  avenue  Victor  Hugo  vas  altogether  too  modest  and 
plebeian  to  enshrine  such  a  jewel.  They  therefore  agreed 
to  put  it  in  the  castle,  where  it  was  greatly  venerated, 
although  it  was  useless  and  solemn  as  a  museum  piece. 
.  .  .  And  was  he  to  permit  the  enemy  in  their  advance 
toward  the  Marne  to  carrj'  off  this  priceless  treasure, 
as  well  as  the  other  gorgeous  things  which  he  had  accu- 
mulated with  such  patience?  .  .  .  Ah,  no!  His  soul  of 
a  collector  would  be  capable  of  the  greatest  heroism 
before  he  would  let  that  go. 

Each  day  was  bringing  a  fresh  sheaf  of  bad  news. 
The  papers  were  saying  little,  and  the  Government  was 
so  veiling  its  communications  that  the  mind  was  left  in 
great  perplexity.  Nevertheless,  the  truth  was  mysteri- 
ously forcing  its  way,  impelled  by  the  pessimism  of  the 
alarmists,  and  the  manipulation  of  the  enemy's  spies  who 
were  remaining  hidden  in  Paris.  The  fatal  news  was 
being  passed  along  in  whispers.  ''They  have  already 
crossed  the  frontier,  .  .  ."  "They  are  already  in  Lille." 
.  .  .  They  were  advancing  at  the  rate  of  thirty-five  miles 
a  day.  The  name  of  von  Kluck  was  beginning  to  have  a 
familiar  ring.  English  and  French  were  retreating  be- 
fore the  enveloping  progression  of  the  invaders.  Some 
were  expecting  another  Sedan.  Desnoyers  was  following 
the  advance  of  the  Germans,  going  daily  to  the  Gare  du 
Nord.  Every  twenty-four  hours  was  lessening  the  radius 
of  travel.  Bulletins  announcing  that  tickets  would  not  be 
sold  for  the  Northern  districts  serv^ed  to  indicate  how 
these  places  were  falling,  one  after  the  other,  into  the 
power  of  the  invader.  The  shrinkage  of  national  terri- 
tory was  going  on  with  such  methodical  regularity  that, 
with  watch  in  hand,  and  allowing  an  advance  of  thirty- 
five  miles  daily,  one  might  gauge  the   hour  when   the 


242     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

lances  of  the  first  Uhlans  would  salute  the  Eiffel  tower. 
The  trains  were  running  full,  great  bunches  of  people 
overflowing  from  their  coaches. 

In  this  time  of  greatest  anxiety,  Desnoyers  again 
visited  his  friend,  Senator  Lacour,  in  order  to  astound 
him  with  the  most  unheard-of  petitions.  He  wished  to  go 
immediately  to  his  castle.  While  everybody  else  was 
fleeing  toward  Paris  he  earnestly  desired  to  go  in  the 
opposite  direction.    The  senator  couldn't  believe  his  ears. 

"You  are  beside  yourself !"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  neces- 
sary to  leave  Paris,  but  toward  the  South.  I  will  tell  you 
confidentially,  and  you  must  not  tell  because  it  is  a  secret 
— we  are  leaving  at  any  minute;  we  are  all  going,  the 
President,  the  Government,  the  Chambers.  We  are  going 
to  establish  ourselves  at  Bordeaux  as  in  1870.  The  enemy 
is  surely  approaching;  it  is  only  a  matter  of  days  .  .  . 
of  hours.  We  know  little  of  just  what  is  happening,  but 
all  the  news  is  bad.  The  army  still  holds  firm,  is  yet 
intact,  but  retreating  .  .  .  retreating,  all  the  time  yielding 
ground.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  leave 
Paris.  Gallieni  will  defend  it,  but  the  defense  is  going 
to  be  hard  and  horrible.  .  .  .  Although  Paris  may  sur- 
render, France  will  not  necessarily  surrender.  The  war 
will  go  on  if  necessary  even  to  the  frontiers  of  Spain 
.  .  .  but  it  is  sad  .  .  .  very  sad!" 

And  he  oflfered  to  take  his  friend  with  him  in  that 
flight  to  Bordeaux  of  which  so  few  yet  knew,  Desnoy- 
ers shook  his  head.  No ;  he  wanted  to  go  to  the  castle  of 
Villeblanche.    His  furniture  ...  his  riches  ...  his  parks. 

"But  you  will  be  taken  prisoner!"  protested  the  sena- 
tor.   "Perhaps  they  will  kill  you !" 

A  shrug  of  indifference  was  the  only  response.  Pie 
considered  himself  energetic  enough  to  struggle  against 
the  entire  German  army  in  the  defense  of  his  property. 
The  important  thing  was  to  get  there,  and  then — just  let 


THE  RETREAT  243 

anybody  dare  to  touch  his  things !  .  .  .  The  senator  looked 
with  astonishment  at  this  civilian  infuriated  by  the  lust 
of  possession.  It  reminded  him  of  some  Arab  merchants, 
that  he  had  once  known,  ordinarily  mild  and  pacific,  who 
quarrelled  and  killed  like  wild  beasts  when  Bedouin 
thieves  seized  their  wares.  This  was  not  the  moment  for 
discussion,  and  each  must  map  out  his  own  course.  So 
the  influential  senator  finaljy  yielded  to  the  desire  of  his 
friend.  If  such  was  his  pleasure,  let  him  carry  it 
through !  So  he  arranged  that  his  mad  petitioner  should 
depart  that  very  night  on  a  military  train  that  was  going 
to  meet  the  army. 

That  journey  put  Don  Marcelo  in  touch  with  the  ex- 
traordinary movement  which  the  war  had  developed  on 
the  railroads.  His  train  took  fourteen  hours  to  cover  the 
distance  normally  made  in  two.  It  was  made  up  of 
freight  cars  filled  with  provisions  and  cartridges,  with 
the  doors  stamped  and  sealed.  A  third-class  car  was 
occupied  by  the  train  escort,  a  detachment  of  provincial 
guards.  He  was  installed  in  a  second-class  compartment 
with  the  lieutenant  in  command  of  this  guard  and  certain 
officials  on  their  way  to  join  their  regiments  after  having 
completed  the  business  of  mobilization  in  the  small  towns 
in  which  they  were  stationed  before  the  war.  The  crowd, 
habituated  to  long  detentions,  was  accustomed  to  getting 
out  and  settling  down  before  the  motionless  locomotive, 
or  scattering  through  the  nearby  fields. 

In  the  stations  of  any  importance  all  the  tracks  were 
occupied  by  rows  of  cars.  High-pressure,  engines  were 
whistling,  impatient  to  be  oflf.  Groups  of  soldiers  were 
hesitating  before  the  different  trains,  making  mistakes, 
getting  out  of  one  coach  to  enter  others.  The  employees, 
calm  but  weary-looking,  were  going  from  side  to  side, 
giving  explanations  about  mountains  of  all  sorts  of 
freight  and  arranging  them  for  transpoi't.    In  the  convoy 


244     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

in  which  Desnoyers  was  placed  the  Territorials  were 
sleeping,  accustomed  to  the  monotony  of  acting  as  guard. 
Those  in  charge  of  the  horses  had  opened  the  sliding 
doors,  seating  themselves  on  the  floor  with  their  legs 
hanging  over  the  edge.  The  train  went  very  slowly  dur- 
ing the  night,  across  shadowy  fields,  stopping  here  and 
there  before  red  lanterns  and  announcing  its  presence  by 
prolonged  whistling. 

In  some  stations  appeared  young  girls  clad  in  white 
with  cockades  and  pennants  on  their  breasts.  Day  and 
night  they  were  there,  in  relays,  so  that  no  train  should 
pass  through  without  a  visit.  They  offered,  in  baskets 
and  trays,  their  gifts  to  the  soldiers — bread,  chocolate, 
fruit.  Many,  already  surfeited,  tried  to  resist,  but  had 
to  yield  eventually  before  the  pleading  countenance  of  the 
maidens.  Even  Desnoyers  was  laden  down  with  these 
gifts  of  patriotic  enthusiasm. 

He  passed  a  great  part  of  the  night  talking  with  his 
travelling  companions.  Only  the  officers  had  vague  direc- 
tions as  to  where  they  were  to  meet  their  regiments,  for 
the  operations  of  war  were  daily  changing  the  situation. 
Faithful  to  duty,  they  were  passing  on,  hoping  to  arrive 
in  time  for  the  decisive  combat.  The  Chief  of  the  Guard 
had  been  over  the  ground,  and  was  the  only  one  able  to 
give  any  account  of  the  retreat.  After  each  stop  the  train 
made  less  progress.  Everybody  appeared  confused.  Why 
the  retreat?  .  .  .  The  army  had  undoubtedly  suffered 
reverses,  but  it  was  still  united  and,  in  his  opinion,  ought 
to  seek  an  engagement  where  it  was.  The  retreat  was 
leaving  the  advance  of  the  enemy  unopposed.  To  what 
point  were  they  going  to  retreat?  .  .  .  They  who  two 
weeks  before  were  discussing  in  their  garrisons  the  place 
in  Belgium  where  their  adversaries  were  going  to  receive 
their  death  blow  and  through  what  places  their  victorious 
troops  would  invade  Germany!  .  .  . 


THE  RETREAT  245 

Their  admission  of  the  change  of  tactics  did  not  reveal 
the  slightest  discouragement.  An  indefinite  but  firm  hope 
was  hovering  triumphantly  above  their  vacillations.  The 
Generalissimo  was  the  only  one  who  possessed  the  secret 
of  events.  And  Desnoyers  approved  with  the  blind  en- 
thusiasm inspired  by  those  in  whom  we  have  confidence. 
Joffre!  .  .  .  That  serious  and  calm  leader  would  finally 
bring  things  out  all  right.  Nobody  ought  to  doubt  his 
ability;  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who  always  says  the 
decisive  word. 

At  daybreak  Don  Marcelo  left  the  train.  "Good  luck 
to  you !"  And  he  clasped  the  hands  of  the  brave  young 
fellows  who  were  going  to  die,  perhaps  in  a  very  short 
time.  Finding  the  road  unexpectedly  open,  the  train 
started  immediately  and  Desnoyers  found  himself  alone 
in  the  station.  In  normal  times  a  branch  road  would 
have  taken  him  on  to  Villeblanche,  but  the  service  was 
now  suspended  for  lack  of  a  train  crew.  The  employees 
had  been  transferred  to  the  lines  crowded  with  the  war 
transportation. 

In  vain  he  sought,  with  most  generous  offers,  a  horse, 
a  simple  cart  drawn  by  any  kind  of  old  beast,  in  order  to 
continue  his  trip.  The  mobilization  had  appropriated  the 
best,  and  all  other  means  of  transportation  had  disap- 
peared with  the  flight  of  the  terrified.  He  would  have  to 
walk  the  eight  miles.  The  old  man  did  not  hesitate.  For- 
ward March !  And  he  began  his  course  along  the  dusty, 
straight,  white  highway  running  between  an  endless  suc- 
cession of  plains.  Some  groups  of  trees,  some  green 
hedges  and  the  roofs  of  various  farms  broke  the  monot- 
ony of  the  countryside.  The  fields  were  covered  with 
stubble  from  the  recent  harvest.  The  haycocks  dotted 
the  ground  with  their  yellowish  cones,  now  beginning  to 
darken  and  take  on  a  tone  of  oxidized  gold.     In  the 


246     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

valleys  the  birds  were  flitting  about,  shaking  off  the  dew 
of  dawn. 

The  first  rays  of  the  sun  announced  a  very  hot  day. 
Around  the  hay  stacks  Desnoyers  saw  knots  of  people 
who  were  getting  up,  shaking  out  their  clothes,  and 
awaking  those  who  were  still  sleeping.  They  were  f ugi 
tives  camping  near  the  station  in  the  hope  that  some  train 
would  carry  them  further  on,  they  knew  not  where. 
Some  had  come  from  far-away  districts ;  they  had  heard 
the  cannon,  had  seen  war  approaching,  and  for  several 
days  had  been  going  forward,  directed  by  chance.  Others, 
infected  with  the  contagion  of  panic,  had  fled,  fearing  to 
know  the  same  horrors.  .  .  .  Among  them  he  saw  mothers 
with  their  little  ones  in  their  arms,  and  old  men  who 
could  only  walk  with  a  cane  in  one  hand  and  the  other 
arm  in  that  of  some  member  of  the  family,  and  a  few 
;>ld  women,  withered  and  motionless  as  mummies,  who 
were  sleeping  as  they  were  trundled  along  in  wheel- 
barrows. When  the  sun  awoke  this  miserable  band  they 
gathered  themselves  together  with  heavy  step,  still  stif- 
fened by  the  night.  Many  were  going  toward  the  station 
in  the  hope  of  a  train  which  never  came,  thinking  that, 
perhaps,  they  might  have  better  luck  during  the  day  that 
was  just  dawning.  Some  were  continuing  their  way 
down  the  track,  hoping  that  fate  might  be  more  propitious 
in  some  other  place. 

Don  Marcelo  walked  all  the  morning  long.  The  white, 
rectilinear  ribbon  of  roadway  was  spotted  with  approach- 
ing groups  that  on  the  horizon  line  looked  like  a  file  of 
ants.  He  did  not  see  a  single  person  going  in  his  direc- 
tion. All  were  fleeing  toward  the  South,  and  on  meeting 
this  city  gentleman,  well-shod,  with  walking  stick  and 
straw  hat,  going  on  alone  toward  the  country  which  they 
vvcre   abandoning  in   terror,   they   showed   the  greatest 


THE  RETREAT  247 

astonishment.  They  concluded  that  he  must  be  some 
functionary,  some  celebrity  from  the  Government. 

At  midday  he  was  able  to  get  a  bit  of  bread,  a  little 
cheese  and  a  bottle  of  white  wine  from  a  tavern  near  the 
road.  The  proprietor  was  at  the  front,  his  wife  sick  and 
moaning  in  her  bed.  The  m.other,  a  rather  deaf  old 
woman  surrounded  by  her  grandchildren,  was  watching 
from  the  doorway  the  procession  of  fugitives  which  had 
been  filing  by  for  the  last  three  days.  "Monsieur,  why  do 
they  flee?"  she  said  to  Desnoyers.  "War  only  concerns 
the  soldiers.  We  country  folk  have  done  no  wrong  to 
anybody,  and  we  ought  not  to  be  afraid." 

Four  hours  later,  on  descending  one  of  the  hills  that 
bounded  the  valley  of  the  Marne,  he  saw  afar  the  roofs 
of  Villeblanche  clustered  around  the  church,  and  further 
on,  beyond  a  little  grove,  the  slatey  points  of  the  round 
towers  of  his  castle. 

The  streets  of  the  village  were  deserted.  Only  on  the 
outer  edges  of  the  square  did  he  see  some  old  women  sit- 
ting as  in  the  placid  evenings  of  bygone  summers.  Half 
of  the  neighborhood  had  fled ;  the  others  were  staying  by 
their  firesides  through  sedentary  routine,  or  deceiving 
themselves  with  a  blind  optimism.  If  the  Prussians 
should  approach,  what  could  they  do  to  them?  .  ,  .  They 
would  obey  their  orders  without  attempting  any  resist- 
ance, and  it  is  impossible  to  punish  people  who  obey.  .  .  . 
Anything  would  be  preferable  to  losing  the  homes  built 
by  their  forefathers  which  they  had  never  left. 

In  the  square  he  saw  the  mayor  and  the  principal 
inhabitants  grouped  together.  Like  the  women,  they  all 
stared  in  astonishment  at  the  owner  of  the  castle.  He 
was  the  most  unexpected  of  apparitions.  While  so  many 
were  fleeing  toward  Paris,  this  Parisian  had  come  to  join 
them  and  share  in  their  fate.  A  smile  of  affection,  a 
look  of  sympathy  began  to  appear  on  the  rough,  bark-like 


248    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

countenances  of  the  suspicious  rustics.  For  a  long  time 
Desnoyers  had  been  on  bad  terms  with  the  entire  village. 
He  had  harshly  insisted  on  his  rights,  showing  no  toler- 
ance in  matters  touching  his  property.  He  had  spoken 
many  times  of  bringing  suit  against  the  mayor  and 
sending  half  of  the  neighborhood  to  prison,  so  his  enemies 
had  retaliated  by  treacherously  invading  his  lands,  poach- 
ing in  his  hunting  preserves,  and  causing  him  great 
trouble  with  counter-suits  and  involved  claims.  His 
hatred  of  the  community  had  even  united  him  with  the 
priest  because  he  was  on  terms  of  permanent  hostility 
with  the  mayor.  But  his  relations  with  the  Church 
turned  out  as  fruitless  as  his  struggles  with  the  State. 
The  priest  was  a  kindly  old  soul  who  bore  a  certain 
resemblance  to  Renan,  and  seemed  interested  only  in 
getting  alms  for  his  poor  out  of  Don  Marcelo,  even 
carrying  his  good-natured  boldness  so  far  as  to  try  to 
excuse  the  marauders  on  his  property. 

How  remote  these  struggles  of  a  few  months  ago  now 
seemed  to  him!  .  .  .  The  millionaire  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  see  the  priest,  on  leaving  his  house  to  enter  the 
church,  greet  the  mayor  as  he  passed,  with  a  friendly 
smile. 

After  long  years  of  hostile  silence  they  had  met  on  the 
evening  of  August  first  at  the  foot  of  the  church  tower. 
The  bell  was  ringing  the  alarm,  announcing  the  mobiliza- 
tion to  the  men  who  were  in  the  field — and  the  two 
enemies  had  instinctively  clasped  hands.  All  French ! 
This  affectionate  unanimity  also  came  to  meet  the  de- 
tested owner  of  the  castle.  He  had  to  exchange  greetings 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  grasping  many  a 
horny  hand.  Behind  his  back  the  people  broke  out  into 
kindly  excuses — "A  good  man,  with  no  fault  except  a 
little  bad  temper.  .  .  ."  And  in  a  few  minutes  Monsieur 


THE  RETREAT  249 

Desnoyers  was  basking  in  the  delightful  atmosphere  of 
popularity. 

As  the  iron-willed  old  gentleman  approached  his  castle 
he  concluded  that,  although  the  fatigue  of  'he.  long  walk 
was  making  his  knees  tremble,  the  trir)  .lad  been  well 
worth  while.  Never  had  his  park  appeared  to  him  so 
extensive  and  so  majestic  as  in  that  summer  twilight, 
never  so  glistening  white  the  swans  that  were  gliding 
double  over  the  quiet  water?,  never  so  imposing  the  great 
group  of  towers  whose  inverted  images  were  repeated  in 
the  glassy  green  of  the  moats.  He  felt  eager  to  see  at 
once  the  stables  with  their  herds  of  animals ;  then  a  brief 
glance  showed  him  that  the  stalls  were  comparatively 
empty.  Mobilization  had  carried  off  his  best  work  horses ; 
the  driving  and  riding  horses  also  had  disappeared.  Those 
in  charge  of  the  grounds  and  the  various  stable  boys  were 
also  in  the  army.  The  Warden,  a  man  upwards  of  fifty 
and  consumptive,  was  the  only  one  of  the  personnel  left 
at  the  castle.  With  his  wife  and  daughter  he  was  keep- 
ing the  mangers  filled,  and  from  time  to  time  was  milking 
the  neglected  cows. 

Within  the  noble  edifice  he  again  congratulated  himself 
on  the  adamantine  will  which  had  brought  him  thither. 
How  could  he  ever  give  up  such  riches !  .  .  .  He  gloated 
over  the  paintings,  the  crystals,  the  draperies,  all  bathed 
in  gold  by  the  splendor  of  the  dying  day,  and  he  felt  more 
than  proud  to  be  their  possessor.  This  pride  awakened 
in  him  an  absurd,  impossible  courage,  as  though  he  were 
a  gigantic  being  from  another  planet,  and  all  humanity 
merely  an  ant  hill  that  he  could  grind  under  foot.  Just 
let  the  enemy  come !  He  could  hold  his  own  against  the 
whole  lot !  .  .  .  Then,  when  his  common  sense  brought 
him  out  of  his  heroic  delirium,  he  tried  to  calm  himself 
with  an  equally   illogical   optimism.     They  would  not 


250     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

come.  He  did  not  know  why  it  was,  but  his  heart  told 
him  that  they  would  not  get  that  far. 

He  passed  the  following  morning  reconnoitring  the 
artificial  meadows  that  he  had  made  behind  the  park, 
lamenting  their  neglected  condition  due  to  the  departure 
of  the  men,  trying  himself  to  open  the  sluice  gates  so 
as  to  give  some  water  to  the  pasture  lands  which  were 
beginning  to  dry  up.  The  grape  vines  were  extending 
their  branches  the  length  of  their  supports,  and  the  full 
bunches,  nearly  ripe,  were  beginning  to  show  their  tri- 
angular lusciousness  among  the  leaves.  Ay,  who  would 
gather  this  abundant  fruit!   .    .    . 

By  afternoon  he  noted  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
movement  in  the  village.  Georgette,  the  Warden's 
daughter,  brought  the  news  that  many  enormous  auto- 
mobiles and  soldiers,  French  soldiers,  were  beginning  to 
pass  through  the  main  street.  In  a  little  while  a  pro- 
cession began  filing  past  on  the  high  road  near  the  castle, 
leading  to  the  bridge  over  the  Mame.  This  was  com- 
posed of  motor  trucks,  open  and  closed,  that  still  had 
their  old  commercial  signs  under  their  covering  of  dust 
and  spots  of  mud.  Many  of  them  displayed  the  names 
of  business  firms  in  Paris,  others  the  names  of  provin- 
cial establishments.  With  these  industrial  vehicles  req- 
uisitioned by  mobilization  were  others  from  the  public 
service  which  produced  in  Desnoyers  the  same  effect  as 
a  familiar  face  in  a  throng  of  strangers.  On  their 
upper  parts  were  the  names  of  their  old  routes : — "Made- 
leine-Bastille, Passy-Bourne,"  etc.  Probably  he  had 
travelled  many  times  in  these  very  vehicles,  now  shabby 
and  aged  by  twenty  days  of  intense  activity,  with  dented 
planks  and  twisted  metal,  perforated  like  sieves,  but  rat- 
tling crazily  on. 

Some  of  the  conveyances  displayed  white  discs  with 
a  red  cross  in  the  center;  others  had  certain  letters  and 


THE  RETREAT  251 

figures  comprehensible  only  to  those  initiates  in  the 
secrets  of  military  administration.  Within  these  vehicles 
— the  only  new  and  strong  motors — he  saw  soldiers, 
many  soldiers,  but  all  wounded,  with  head  and  legs 
bandaged,  ashy  faces  made  still  more  tragic  by  their 
growing  beards,  feverish  eyes  looking  fixedly  ahead, 
mouths  so  sadly  immobile  that  they  seemed  carven  by 
agonizing  groans.  Doctors  and  nurses  were  occupying 
various  carriages  in  this  convoy  escorted  by  several 
platoons  of  horsemen.  And  mingled  with  the  slowly 
moving  horses  and  automobiles  were  marching  groups 
of  foot-soldiers,  with  cloaks  unbuttoned  or  hanging  from 
their  shoulders  like  capes — wounded  men  who  were  able 
to  walk  and  joke  and  ^ng,  some  with  arms  in  splints 
across  their  breasts,  others  with  bandaged  heads  with 
clotted  blood  showing  through  the  thin  white  strips. 

The  millionaire  longed  to  do  something  for  these  brave 
fellows,  but  he  had  hardly  begun  to  distribute  some  bot- 
tles of  wine  and  loaves  of  bread  before  a  doctor  inter- 
posed, upbraiding  him  as  though  he  had  committed  a 
crime.  His  gifts  might  result  fatally.  So  he  had  to 
stand  beside  the  road,  sad  and  helpless,  looking  after  the 
sorrowful  convoy.  ...  By  nightfall  the  vehicles  filled 
with  the  sick  were  no  longer  filing  by. 

He  now  saw  hundreds  of  drays,  some  hermetically 
sealed  with  the  prudence  that  explosive  material  requires, 
others  with  bundles  and  boxes  that  were  sending  out 
a  stale  odor  of  provisions.  Then  came  great  herds  of 
cattle  raising  thick,  whirling  clouds  of  dust  in  the  nar- 
row parts  of  the  road,  prodded  on  by  the  sticks  and  yells 
of  the  shepherds  in  kepis. 

His  thoughts  kept  him  wakeful  all  night.  This,  then, 
was  the  retreat  of  which  the  people  of  Paris  were  talk- 
ing, but  in  which  many  wished  not  to  believe — the  re- 
treat reaching  even  there  and  continuing  its  indefinite 


252    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

retirement,  since  nobody  knew  what  its  end  might 
be.  .  .  .  His  optimism  aroused  a  ridiculous  hope. 
Perhaps  this  was  only  the  retreat  of  the  hospitals  and 
stores  which  always  follows  an  army.  The  troops,  wish- 
ing to  be  rid  of  impedimenta,  were  sending  them  for- 
ward by  railway  and  highway.  That  must  be  it.  So 
all  through  the  night,  he  interpreted  the  incessant  bustle 
as  the  passing  of  vehicles  filled  with  the  wounded,  with 
munitions  and  eatables,  like  those  which  had  filed  by 
in  the  afternoon. 

Toward  morning  he  fell  asleep  through  sheer  weari- 
ness, and  when  he  awoke  late  in  the  day  his  first  glance 
was  toward  the  road.  He  saw  it  filled  with  men  and 
horses  dragging  some  rolling  objects.  But  these  men. 
were  carrying  guns  and  were  formed  in  battalions  and 
regiments.  The  animals  were  pulling  the  pieces  of  ar- 
tillery.    It  was  an    army.    .    .    .     It  was  the  retreat  1 

Desnoyers  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  road  to  be  more 
convinced  of  the  truth. 

Alas,  they  were  regiments  such  as  he  had  seen  leaving 
the  stations  of  Paris.  .  .  .  But  with  what  a  very  dif- 
ferent aspect!  The  blue  cloaks  were  now  ragged  and 
yellowing  garments,  the  trousers  faded  to  the  color  of 
a  half-baked  brick,  the  shoes  great  cakes  of  mud.  The 
faces  had  a  desperate  expression,  with  layers  of  dust 
and  sweat  in  all  their  grooves  and  openings,  with  beards 
of  recent  growth,  sharp  as  spikes,  with  an  air  of  great 
weariness  showing  the  longing  to  drop  down  somewhere 
forever,  killing  or  dying,  but  without  going  a  step  further. 
They  were  tramping  .  .  .  tramping  .  .  .  tramping! 
Some  marches  had  lasted  thirty  hours  at  a  stretch.  The 
enemy  was  on  their  tracks,  and  the  order  was  to  go  on 
and  not  to  fight,  freeing  themselves  by  their  fleetfooted- 
ness  from  the  involved  movements  of  the  invader. 

The  chiefs  suspected  the  discouraged  exhaustion  of 


THE  RETREAT  25^^ 

their  men.  They  might  exact  of  them  complete  sacri- 
fice of  life — but  to  order  them  to  march  day  and  nijht, 
forever  fleeing  before  the  enemy  when  they  did  not 
consider  themselves  vanquished,  when  they  were  ani- 
mated by  that  ferocious  wrath  which  is  the  mother  of 
heroism!  ,  .  .  Their  despairing  expressions  mutely 
sought  the  nearest  officers,  the  leaders,  even  the  colonel. 
They  simply  could  go  no  further !  Such  a  long,  devas- 
tating march  in  such  a  few  days,  and  what  for?  .  .  . 
The  superior  officers,  who  knew  no  more  than  their  men, 
seemed  to  be  replying  with  their  eyes,  as  though  they 
possessed  a  secret — "Courage !  One  more  effort !  .  .  . 
This  is  going  to  come  to  an  end  very  soon." 

The  vigorous  beasts,  having  no  imagination,  were  re- 
sisting less  than  the  men,  but  their  aspect  was  deplorable. 
How  tould  these  be  the  same  strong  horses  with  glossy 
coats  that  he  had  seen  in  the  Paris  processions  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  previous  month?  A  campaign  of  twenty 
days  had  aged  and  exhausted  them ;  their  dull  gaze 
seemed  to  be  imploring  pity.  They  were  weak  and 
emaciated,  the  outline  of  their  skeletons  so  plainly  ap- 
parent that  it  made  their  eyes  look  larger.  Their  har- 
ness, as  they  moved,  showed  the  skin  raw  and  bleeding. 
Yet  they  were  pushing  on  with  a  mighty  effort,  con- 
centrating their  last  powers,  as  though  human  demands 
were  beyond  their  obscure  instincts.  Some  could  go  no 
further  and  suddenly  collapsed  from  sheer  fatigue. 
Desnoyers  noticed  that  the  artillerymen  rapidly  unhar- 
nessed them,  pushing  them  out  of  the  road  so  as  to 
leave  the  way  open  for  the  rest.  There  lay  the  skele- 
ton-like frames  with  stiffened  legs  and  glassy  eyes  star- 
ing fixedly  at  the  first  flies  already  attracted  by  their 
miserable  carrion. 

The  cannons  painted  gray,  the  gun-carriages,  the  artil- 
lery equipment,  all  that  Don  Marcelo  had  seen  clean  and 


254     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

shining  with  the  enthusiastic  friction  that  man  has  given 
to  arms  from  remote  epochs — even  more  persistent  than 
that  which  woman  gives  to  household  utensils — were  now 
dirty,  overlaid  with  the  marks  of  endless  use,  with  the 
wreckage  of  unavoidable  neglect.  The  wheels  were  de- 
formed with  mud,  the  metal  darkened  by  the  smoke  of 
explosion,  the  gray  paint  spotted  with  mossy  damp- 
ness. 

In  the  free  spaces  in  this  file,  in  the  parentheses 
opened  between  battery  and  regiment,  were  sandwiched 
crowds  of  civilians — miserable  groups  driven  on  by  the 
in\  .sion,  populations  of  entire  towns  that  had  disinte- 
grated, following  the  army  in  its  retreat.  The  approach 
of  a  new  division  would  make  them  leave  the  road  tem- 
porarily, continuing  their  march  in  the  adjoining  fields. 
Then  at  the  slightest  opening  in  the  troops  they  would 
again  slip  along  the  white  and  even  surface  of  the  high- 
way. They  were  mothers  who  were  pushing  hand-carts 
heaped  high  with  pyramids  of  furniture  and  tiny  babies, 
the  sick  who  could  hardly  drag  themselves  along,  old 
men  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  their  grandsons,  old 
women  with  little  children  clinging  to  their  skirts — a 
pitiful,  silent  brood. 

Nobody  now  opposed  the  liberality  of  the  owner  of 
the  castle.  His  entire  vintage  seemed  to  be  overflowing 
on  the  highway.  Casks  from  the  last  grape-gathering 
were  rolled  out  to  the  roadside,  and  the  soldiers  filled  the 
metal  ladles  hanging  from  their  belts  with  the  red  stream. 
Then  the  bottled  wine  began  making  its  appearance  by 
order  of  date,  and  was  instantly  lost  in  the  river  of 
men  continually  flowing  by.  Desnoyers  observed  with 
much  satisfaction  the  effects  of  his  munificence.  The 
smiles  were  reappearing  on  the  despairing  faces,  the 
French  jest  was  leaping  from  row  to  row,  and  on  re- 
suming their  march  the  groups  began  to  sing. 


THE  RETREAT  255 

Then  he  went  to  see  the  officers  who  in  the  village 
square  were  giving  their  horses  a  brief  rest  before 
rejoining  their  columns.  With  perplexed  countenances 
and  heavy  eyes  they  were  talking  among  themselves 
about  this  retreat,  so  incomprehensible  to  them  all.  Days 
before  in  Guise  they  had  routed  their  pursuers,  and  yet 
now  they  were  continually  withdrawing  in  obedience  to 
a  severe  and  endless  order.  "We  do  not  understand 
it,"  they  were  saying.  "We  do  not  understand."  An 
ordered  and  methodical  tide  was  dragging  back  these 
men  who  wanted  to  fight,  yet  had  to  retreat.  All  were 
suffering  the  same  cruel  doubt.  "We  do  not  under- 
stand." 

And  doubt  was  making  still  more  distressing  this  day- 
and-night  march  with  only  the  briefest  rests — because 
the  heads  of  the  divisions  were  in  hourly  fear  of  being 
cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  army.  "One  effort  more, 
boys !  Courage !  Soon  we  shall  rest !"  The  columns 
in  their  retirement  were  extending  hundreds  of  miles. 
Desnoyers  was  seeing  only  one  division.  Others  and 
still  others  were  doing  exactly  this  same  thing  at  that 
very  hour,  their  recessional  extending  across  half  of 
France.  All,  with  the  same  disheartened  obedience, 
were  falling  back,  the  men  exclaiming  the  same  as  the 
officials,  "We  don't  understand.  .  .  .  We  don't  under- 
stand !" 

Don  Marcelo  soon  felt  the  same  sadness  and  bewilder- 
ment as  these  soldiers.  He  didn't  understand,  either. 
He  saw  the  obvious  thing,  what  all  were  able  to  see — 
the  territory  invaded  without  the  Germans  encountering 
any  stubborn  resistance ; — entire  counties,  cities,  villages, 
hamlets  remaining  in  the  power  of  the  enemy,  at  the 
back  of  an  army  that  was  constantly  withdrawing.  His 
enthusiasm  suddenly  collapsed  like  a  pricked  balloon,  and 
all  his  former  pessimism  returned.     The  troops  were  dis- 


256     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

playing  energy  and  discipline ;  but  what  did  that  amount 
to  if  they  had  to  keep  retreating  all  the  time,  unable  on 
account  of  strict  orders  to  fight  or  defend  the  land? 
"Just  as  it  was  in  the  '70's,"  he  sighed.  "Outwardly 
there  is  more  order,  but  the  result  is  going  to  be  the 
same." 

As  though  a  negative  reply  to  his  faint-heartedness, 
he  overheard  the  voice  of  a  soldier  reassuring  a  farmer: 
"We  are  retreating,  yes — only  that  we  may  pounce  upon 
the  Boches  with  more  strength.  Grandpa  Joffre  is  going 
to  put  them  in  his  pocket  when  and  where  he  will." 

The  mere  sound  of  the  Marshal's  name  revived  Don 
Marcelo's  hope.  Perhaps  this  soldier,  who  was  keep- 
ing his  faith  intact  in  spite  of  the  interminable  and 
demoralizing  marches,  was  nearer  the  truth  than  the 
reasoning  and  studious  officers. 

He  passed  the  rest  of  the  day  making  presents  to  the 
last  detachments  of  the  column.  His  wine  cellars  were 
gradually  emptying.  By  order  of  dates,  he  continued 
distributing  thousands  of  bottles  stored  in  the  subter- 
ranean parts  of  the  castle.  By  evening  he  was  giving 
to  those  who  appeared  weakest  bottles  covered  with 
the  dust  of  many  years.  As  the  lines  filed  by  the  men 
seemed  weaker  and  more  exhausted.  Stragglers  were 
now  passing,  painfully  drawing  their  raw  and  bleeding 
feet  from  their  shoes.  Some  had  already  freed  them- 
selves from  these  torture  cases  and  were  marching  bare- 
foot, with  their  heavy  boots  hanging  from  their 
shoulders,  and  staining  the  highway  with  drops  of  blood. 
Although  staggering  with  deadly  fatigue,  they  kept  their 
arms  and  outfits,  believing  that  the  enemy  was  near. 

Desnoyers'  liberality  stupefied  many  of  them.  They 
were  accustomed  to  crossing  their  native  soil,  having 
to  struggle  with  the  selfishness  of  the  producer.  No- 
body had  been  offering  anything.     Fear  of  danger  had 


THE  RETREAT  257 

made  the  country  folk  hide  their  eatables  and  refuse 
to  lend  the  slightest  aid  to  their  compatriots  who  were 
fighting  for  them. 

The  millionaire  slept  badly  this  second  night  in  his 
pompous  bed  with  columns  and  plushes  that  had  be- 
longed to  Henry  IV — according  to  the  declarations  of 
the  salesmen.  The  troops  no  longer  were  marching 
past.  From  time  to  time  there  straggled  by  a  single 
battalion,  a  batter}',  a  group  of  horsemen — the  last  forces 
of  the  rear  guard  that  had  taken  their  position  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village  in  order  to  cover  the  retreat. 
The  profound  silence  that  followed  the  turmoil  of  trans- 
portation awoke  in  his  mind  a  sense  of  doubt  and  dis- 
quietude. What  was  he  doing  there  when  the  soldiers 
had  gone?  Was  he  not  crazy  to  remain  there?  .  .  . 
But  immediately  there  came  galloping  into  his  mind  the 
great  riches  which  the  castle  contained.  If  he  could 
only  take  it  all  away!  ,  .  .  That  was  impossible  now 
through  want  of  means  and  time.  Besides,  his  stubborn 
will  looked  upon  such  flight  as  a  shameful  concession. 
"We  must  finish  what  we  have  begun !"  he  said  to  him- 
self. He  had  made  the  trip  on  purpose  to  guard  his 
own,  and  he  must  not  flee  at  the  approach  of  danger.  .  .  . 

The  following  morning,  when  he  went  down  into  the 
village,  he  saw  hardly  any  soldiers.  Only  a  single  de- 
tachment of  dragoons  was  still  in  the  neighborhood; 
the  horsemen  were  scouring  the  woods  and  pushing 
forward  the  stragglers  at  the  same  time  that  they  were 
opposing  the  advance  of  the  enemy.  The  troopers  had 
obstructed  the  street  with  a  barricade  of  carts  and  furni- 
ture. Standing  behind  this  crude  barrier,  they  were 
watching  the  white  strip  of  roadway  which  ran  between 
the  two  hills  covered  with  trees.  Occasionally  there 
sounded  stray  shots  like  the  snapping  of  cords.  "Ours," 
said  the  troopers.     These  were  the  last  detachments  of 


258     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

sharpshooters  firing  at  the  advancing  Uhlans.  The  cav- 
alry of  the  rear  guard  had  the  task  of  opposing  a  con- 
tinual resistance  to  the  enemy,  repelling  the  squads  of 
Germans  who  were  trying  to  work  their  way  along  to  the 
retreating  columns. 

Desnoyers  saw  approaching  along  the  highroad  the 
last  stragglers  from  the  infantry.  They  were  not  walk- 
ing, they  rather  appeared  to  be  dragging  themselves  for- 
ward, with  the  firm  intention  of  advancing,  but  were 
betrayed  by  emaciated  legs  and  bleeding  feet.  Some  had 
sunk  down  for  a  moment  by  the  roadside,  agonized  with 
weariness,  in  order  to  breathe  without  the  weight  of 
their  knapsacks,  and  draw  their  swollen  feet  from  their 
leather  prisons,  and  wipe  off  the  sweat ;  but  upon  trying 
to  renew  their  march,  they  found  it  impossible  to  rise. 
Their  bodies  seemed  made  of  stone.  Fatigue  had 
brought  them  to  a  condition  bordering  on  catalepsy;  so, 
unable  to  move,  they  were  seeing  dimly  the  rest  of  the 
army  passing  on  as  a  fantastic  file — ^battalions,  more 
battalions,  batteries,  troops  of  horses.  Then  the  silence, 
the  night,  the  sleep  on  the  stones  and  dust,  shaken  by 
most  terrible  nightmare.  At  daybreak  they  v/ere  awa- 
kened by  bodies  of  horsemen  exploring  the  ground, 
rounding  up  the  remnants  of  the  retreat.  Ay,  it  was 
impossible  to  move!  The  dragoons,  revolver  in  hand, 
had  to  resort  to  threats  in  order  to  rouse  them!  Only 
the  certainty  that  the  pursuer  was  near  and  might  make 
them  prisoners  gave  them  a  momentary  vigor.  So  they 
were  forcing  themselves  up  by  superhuman  effort,  stag- 
gering, dragging  their  legs,  and  supporting  themselves 
on  their  guns  as  though  they  were  canes. 

Many  of  these  were  young  men  who  had  aged  in  an 
hour  and  changed  into  confirmed  invalids.  Poor  fel- 
lows !  They  would  not  go  very  far !  Their  intention 
was  to  follow  on,  to  join  the  column,  but  on  entering 


THE  RETREAT  259 

the  village  they  looked  at  the  houses  with  supplicating 
eyes,  desiring  to  enter  them,  feeling  such  a  craving  for 
immediate  relief  that  they  forgot  even  the  nearness  of 
the  enemy. 

Villeblanche  was  now  more  military  than  before  the 
arrival  of  the  troops.  The  night  before  a  great  part  of 
the  inhabitants  had  fled,  having  become  infected  with  the 
same  fear  that  was  driving  on  the  crowds  following  the 
army.  The  mayor  and  the  priest  remained.  Reconciled 
with  the  owner  of  the  castle  through  his  unexpected 
presence  in  their  midst,  and  admiring  his  liberality,  the 
municipal  official  approached  to  give  him  some  news. 
The  engineers  were  mining  the  bridge  over  the  Marne. 
They  were  only  waiting  for  the  dragoons  to  cross  before 
blowing  it  up.     If  he  wished  to  go,  there  was  still  time. 

Again  Desnoyers  hesitated.  Certainly  it  was  fool- 
hardy to  remain  there.  But  a  glance  at  the  woods  over 
whose  branches  rose  the  towers  of  his  castle,  settled  his 
doubts.  No,  no.  .  .  .  "We  must  finish  what  we  have 
begun !" 

The  very  last  band  of  troopers  now  made  their  appear- 
ance, coming  out  of  the  woods  by  different  paths.  They 
were  riding  their  horses  slowly,  as  though  they  deplored 
this  retreat.  They  kept  looking  behind,  carbine  in  hand, 
ready  to  halt  and  shoot.  The  others  who  had  been  occu- 
pying the  barricade  were  already  on  their  mounts. 
The  division  reformed,  the  commands  of  the  officers 
were  heard  and  a  quick  trot,  accompanied  by  the  clank- 
ing of  metal,  told  Don  Marcelo  that  the  last  of  the  army 
had  left. 

He  remained  near  the  barricade  in  a  solitude  of  in- 
tense silence,  as  though  the  world  were  suddenly  depopu- 
lated. Two  dogs,  abandoned  by  the  flight  of  their  mas- 
ters, leaped  and  sniffed  around  him,  coaxing  him  for 
protection.     They  were  unable  to  get  the  desired  scent 


26o     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

in  that  land  trodden  down  and  disfigured  by  the  transit 
of  thousands  of  men.  A  family  cat  was  watching  the 
birds  tliat  were  beginning  to  return  to  their  haunts. 
With  timid  flutterings  they  were  picking  at  what  the 
horses  had  left,  and  an  ownerless  hen  was  disputing  the 
banquet  with  the  winged  band,  until  then  hidden  in  the 
trees  and  roofs.  The  silence  intensified  the  rustling  of 
the  leaves,  the  hum  of  the  insects,  the  summer  respira- 
tion of  the  sunburnt  soil  which  appeared  to  have  con- 
tracted timorously  under  the  weight  of  the  men  in  arms. 

Desnoyers  was  losing  exact  track  of  the  passing  of 
time.  He  was  beginning  to  believe  that  all  which  had  gone 
before  must  have  been  a  bad  dream.  The  calm  surround- 
ing him  made  what  had  been  happening  here  seem  most 
improbable. 

Suddenly  he  saw  something  moving  at  the  far  end  of 
the  road,  at  the  very  highest  point  where  the  white  rib- 
bon of  the  highway  touched  the  blue  of  the  horizon. 
There  were  two  men  on  horseback,  two  little  tin  soldiers 
who  appeared  to  have  escaped  from  a  box  of  toys. 
He  had  brought  with  him  a  pair  of  field  glasses  that  had 
often  surprised  marauders  on  his  property,  and  by  their 
aid  he  saw  more  clearly  the  two  riders  clad  in  greenish 
gray !  They  were  carrying  lances  and  wearing  helmets 
ending  in  a  horizontal  plate.  .  .  .  They!  He  could 
not  doubt  it :  before  his  eyes  were  the  first  Uhlans ! 

For  some  time  they  remained  motionless,  as  though 
exploring  the  horizon.  Then,  from  the  obscure  masses 
of  vegetation  that  bordered  the  roadside,  others  and 
still  others  came  sallying  forth  in  groups.  The  little  tin 
soldiers  no  longer  were  showing  their  silhouettes  against 
the  horizon's  blue;  the  whiteness  of  the  highway  was 
now  making  their  background,  ascending  behind  their 
heads.  They  came  slowly  down,  like  a  band  that  fears 
ambush,  examining  carefully  everything  around. 


THE  RETREAT  261 

The  advisability  of  prompt  retirement  made  Don  Mar- 
celo  bring  his  investigations  to  a  close.  It  would  be 
most  disastrous  for  him  if  they  surprised  him  here. 
But  on  lowering  his  glasses  something  extraordinary 
passed  across  his  field  of  vision.  A  short  distance  away, 
so  that  he  could  almost  touch  them  with  his  hand,  he 
saw  many  men  skulking  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
on  both  sides  of  the  road.  His  surprise  increased  as  he 
became  convinced  that  they  were  Frenchmen,  wearing 
kepis.  Where  were  they  coming  from?  .  .  .  He  ex- 
amined more  closely  with  his  spy  glass.  They  were 
stragglers  in  a  lamentable  state  of  body  and  a  picturesque 
variety  of  uniforms — infantry,  Zouaves,  dragoons  with- 
out their  horses.  And  with  them  were  forest  guards 
and  officers  from  the  villages  that  had  received  too  late 
the  news  of  the  retreat — altogether  about  fifty.  A  few 
were  fresh  and  vigorous,  others  were  keeping  themselves 
up  by  supernatural  effort.     All  were  carrying  arms. 

They  finally  made  the  barricade,  looking  continually 
behind  them,  in  order  to  watch,  in  the  shelter  of  the 
trees,  the  slow  advance  of  the  Uhlans.  At  the  head 
of  this  heterogeneous  troop  was  an  official  of  the  police, 
old  and  fat,  with  a  revolver  in  his  right  hand,  his  mous- 
tache bristling  with  excitement,  and  a  murderous  glitter 
in  his  heavy-lidded  blue  eyes.  The  band  was  continu- 
ing its  advance  through  the  village,  slipping  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  barricade  of  carts  without  paying  much 
attention  to  their  curious  countryman,  when  suddenly 
sounded  a  loud  detonation,  making  the  horizon  vibrate 
and  the  houses  tremble. 

"What  is  that  ?"  asked  the  officer,  looking  at  Desnoyers 
for  the  first  time.  He  explained  that  it  was  the  bridge 
which  had  just  been  blown  up.  The  leader  received  the 
news  with  an  oath,  but  his  confused  followers,  brought 


262     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

together  by  chance,  remained  as  indifferent  as  though 
they  had  lost  all  contact  with  reality. 

"Might  as  well  die  here  as  anywhere,"  continued  the 
official.  Many  of  the  fugitives  acknowledged  this  de- 
cision with  prompt  obedience,  since  it  saved  them  the  tor- 
ture of  continuing  their  march.  They  were  almost  re- 
joicing at  the  explosion  which  had  cut  off  their  progress. 
Instinctively  they  were  gathering  in  the  places  most 
sheltered  by  the  barricade.  Some  entered  the  abandoned 
houses  whose  doors  the  dragoons  had  forced  in  order  to 
utilize  the  upper  floors.  All  seemed  satisfied  to  be  able 
to  rest,  even  though  they  might  soon  have  to  fight.  The 
officer  went  from  group  to  group  giving  his  orders. 
They  must  not  fire  till  he  gave  the  word. 

Don  Marcelo  watched  these  preparations  with  the  im- 
movability of  surprise.  So  rapid  and  noiseless  had  been 
the  apparition  of  the  stragglers  that  he  imagined  he  must 
still  be  dreaming.  There  could  be  no  danger  in  this  un- 
real situation;  it  was  all  a  lie.  And  he  remained  in  his 
place  without  understanding  the  deputy  who  was  order- 
ing his  departure  with  roughest  words.  Obstinate  civil- 
ian! .  .  . 

The  reverberation  of  the  explosion  had  filled  the  high- 
way with  horsemen.  They  were  coming  from  all  direc- 
tions, forming  themselves  into  the  advance  group.  The 
Uhlans  were  galloping  around  under  the  impression  that 
the  village  was  abandoned. 

"Fire!" 

Desnoyers  was  enveloped  in  a  rain  of  crackling  noises, 
as  though  the  trunks  of  all  the  trees  had  split  before  his 
eyes. 

The  impetuous  band  halted  suddenly.  Some  of  their 
men  were  rolling  on  the  ground.  Some  were  bending 
themselves  double,  trying  to  get  across  the  road  without 
htmj   seen.     Others    remained    stretched    out   on    their 


THE  RETREAT  263 

backs  or  face  downward  with  their  arms  in  front.  The 
riderless  horses  were  racing  wildly  across  the  fields  with 
reins  dragging,  urged  on  by  the  loose  stirrups. 

And  after  this  rude  shock  which  had  brought  them 
surprise  and  death,  the  band  disappeared,  instantly  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  IV 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO 


Argensola  had  found  a  new  occupation  even  more 
exciting  than  marking  out  on  the  map  the  manoeuvres  of 
the  armies. 

"I  am  now  devoting  myself  to  the  taube,"  he  an- 
nounced. "It  appears  from  four  to  five  with  the  preci- 
sion of  a  punctilious  guest  coming  to  take  tea." 

Every  afternoon  at  the  appointed  hour,  a  German 
aeroplane  was  flying  over  Paris  dropping  bombs.  This 
would-be  intimidation  was  producing  no  terror,  the  peo- 
ple accepting  the  visit  as  an  interesting  and  extraordi- 
nary spectacle.  In  vain  the  aviators  were  flinging  in  the 
city  streets  German  flags  bearing  ironic  messages,  giving 
accounts  of  the  defeat  of  the  retreating  army  and  the 
failures  of  the  Russian  offensive.  Lies,  all  lies !  In  vain 
they  were  dropping  bombs,  destroying  garrets,  killing  or 
wounding  old  men,  women  and  babes.  "Ah,  the  ban- 
dits!" The  crowds  would  threaten  with  their  fists  the 
malign  mosquito,  scarcely  visible  6,000  feet  above  them, 
and  after  this  outburst,  they  would  follow  it  with  strain- 
ing eyes  from  street  to  street,  or  stand  motionless  in  the 
square  in  order  to  study  its  evolutions. 

The  most  punctual  of  all  the  spectators  was  Argensola. 
At  four  o'clock  he  was  in  the  place  de  la  Concorde  with 
upturned  face  and  wide-open  eyes,  in  most  cordial  good- 
fellowship  with  all  the  bystanders.  It  was  as  though 
they  were  holding  season  tickets  at  the  same  theatre, 

264 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  265 

becoming  acquainted  through  seeing  each  other  so  often. 
*'Will  it  come?  .  .  .  Will  it  not  come  to-day?"  The 
^vomen  appeared  to  be  the  most  vehement,  some  of  them 
rushing  up,  flushed  and  breathless,  fearing  that  they 
might  have  arrived  too  late  for  the  show.  ...  A 
great  crj' — "There  it  comes !  .  .  .  There  it  is !"  And 
thousands  of  hands  were  pointing  to  a  vague  spot  on  the 
horizon.  With  field  glasses  and  telescopes  they  were 
aiding  their  vision,  the  popular  venders  offering  every 
kind  of  optical  instruments  .  .  .  and  for  an  hour  the 
thrilling  spectacle  of  an  aerial  hunt  was  played  out,  noisy 
and  useless. 

The  great  insect  was  trying  to  reach  the  Eiffel  Tower, 
and  from  its  base  would  come  sharp  reports,  at  the 
same  time  that  the  different  platforms  spit  out  a  fierce 
stream  of  shrapnel.  As  it  zigzagged  over  the  city,  the 
discharge  of  rifles  would  crackle  from  roof  and  street. 
Everyone  that  had  arms  in  his  house  was  firing — the 
soldiers  of  the  guard,  and  the  English  and  Belgians  on 
their  way  through  Paris,  They  knew  that  their  shots 
were  perfectly  useless,  but  they  were  firing  for  the  fun 
of  retorting,  hoping  at  the  same  time  that  one  of  their 
chance  shots  might  achieve  a  miracle;  but  the  only 
miracle  was  that  the  shooters  did  not  kill  each  other 
with  their  precipitate  and  ineffectual  fire.  As  it  was,  a 
few  passers-by  did  fall,  wounded  by  balls  from  unknown 
sources. 

Argensola  would  tear  from  street  to  street  following 
the  evolutions  of  the  inimical  bird,  trying  to  guess  where 
its  projectiles  would  fall,  anxious  to  be  the  first  to  reach 
the  bombarded  house,  excited  by  the  shots  that  were 
answering  from  below.  And  to  think  that  he  had  no  gun 
like  those  khaki-clad  Englishmen  or  those  Belgians  in 
barrick  cap,  with  tassel  over  the  front!  .  .  .  Finally 
the    taube,    tired    of    manoeuvring,    would    disappear. 


2!^     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"Until  to-morrow!"  ejaculated  the  Spaniard.  "Perhaps 
to-morrow's  show  may  be  even  more  interesting!" 

He  employed  his  free  hours  between  his  geographical 
observations  and  his  aerial  contemplations  in  making  the 
rounds  of  tlie  stations,  watching  the  crowds  of  travellers 
making  their  escape  from  Paris.  The  sudden  vision  of 
the  truth — after  the  illusion  which  the  Government  had 
been  creating  with  its  optimistic  dispatches,  the  cer- 
tainty that  the  Germans  were  actually  near  when  a  week 
before  they  had  imagined  them  completely  routed,  the 
taubes  flying  over  Paris,  the  mysterious  threat  of  the 
Zeppelins — all  these  dangerous  signs  were  filling  a  part 
of  the  community  with  frenzied  desperation.  The  rail- 
road stations,  guarded  by  the  soldiery,  were  only  admit- 
ting those  v.ho  had  secured  tickets  in  advance.  Some 
had  been  waiting  entire  days  for  their  turn  to  depart. 
The  most  impatient  were  starting  to  walk,  eager  to  get 
outside  of  the  city  as  soon  as  possible.  The  roads  were 
black  with  the  crowds  all  going  in  the  same  directions. 
Toward  the  South  they  were  fleeing  by  automobile,  in 
carriages,  in  gardeners'  carts,  on  foot. 

Argensola  surveyed  this  hegira  with  serenity.  He 
would  remain  because  he  had  always  admired  those  men 
who  witnessed  the  Siege  of  Paris  in  1870.  Now  it  was 
going  to  be  his  good  fortune  to  observe  an  historical 
drama,  perhaps  even  more  interesting.  The  wonders  that 
he  would  be  able  to  relate  in  the  future !  .  .  .  But  the 
distraction  and  indifference  of  his  present  audience  were 
annoying  him  greatly.  He  would  hasten  back  to  the 
studio,  in  feverish  excitement,  to  communicate  the  latest 
gratifying  news  to  Desnoyers  who  would  listen  as  though 
he  did  not  hear  him.  The  night  that  he  informed  him 
that  the  Government,  the  Chambers,  the  Diplomatic 
Corps,  and  even  the  actors  of  the  Comedie  Franqaise 
were  going  that  verj'  hour  on  special  trains  for  Bordeaux, 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  267 

his  companion  merely  replied  with  a  shrug  of  indiffer- 
ence. 

Desnoyers  was  worrying  about  other  things.  That 
morning  he  had  received  a  note  from  Marguerite — only 
two  lines  scrawled  in  great  haste.  She  was  leaving, 
starting  immediately,  accompanied  by  her  mother. 
Adieu !  .  .  .  and  nothing  more.  The  panic  had  caused 
many  love-affairs  to  be  forgotten,  had  broken  off  long 
intimacies,  but  Marguerite's  temperament  was  above  such 
incoherencies  from  mere  flight.  Julio  felt  that  her  terse- 
ness was  very  ominous.  Why  not  mention  the  place  to 
which  she  was  going?  .    .    . 

In  the  afternoon,  he  took  a  bold  step  which  she  had 
always  forbidden.  He  went  to  her  home  and  talked  a 
long  time  with  the  concierge  in  order  to  get  some  news. 
The  good  woman  was  delighted  to  work  off  on  him  the 
loquacity  so  brusquely  cut  short  by  the  flight  of  tenants 
and  servants.  The  lady  on  the  first  floor  (Marguerite's 
mother)  had  been  the  last  to  abandon  the  house  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  she  was  really  sick  over  her  son's  de- 
parture. They  had  left  the  day  before  without  saying 
where  they  were  going.  The  only  thing  that  she  knew 
was  that  they  took  the  train  in  the  Gare  d'Orsay.  They 
were  going  toward  the  South  like  all  the  rest  of  the  rich. 

And  she  supplemented  her  revelations  with  the  vague 
news  that  the  daughter  had  seemed  very  much  upset  by 
the  information  that  she  had  received  from  the  front. 
Someone  in  the  family  was  wounded.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  brother,  but  she  really  didn't  know.  With  so  many 
surprises  and  strange  things  happening,  it  was  difiicult 
to  keep  track  of  everything.  Her  husband,  too,  was  in 
the  army  and  she  had  her  own  affairs  to  worry  about. 

"Where  can  she  have  gone?"  Julio  asked  himself  all 
day  long.  "Why  does  she  wish  to  keep  me  in  ignorance 
of  her  whereabouts?" 


268     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

When  his  comrade  told  him  that  night  about  the  trans- 
fer of  the  seat  of  government,  with  all  the  mystery  of 
news  not  yet  made  public,  Desnoyers  merely  replied : 

"They  are  doing  the  best  thing.  ...  I,  too,  will  go 
to-morrow  if  I  can." 

Why  remain  longer  in  Paris?  His  family  was  away. 
His  father,  according  to  Argensola's  investigations,  also 
had  gone  off  without  saying  whither.  Now  Marguerite's 
mysterious  flight  was  leaving  him  entirely  alone,  in  a 
solitude  that  was  filling  him  with  remorse. 

That  afternoon,  when  strolling  through  the  boulevards, 
he  had  stumbled  across  a  friend  considerably  older  than 
himself,  an  acquaintance  in  the  fencing  club  which  he 
used  to  frequent.  This  was  the  first  time  they  had  met 
since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  they  ran  over  the 
list  of  their  companions  in  the  army.  Desnoyers'  in- 
quiries were  answered  by  the  older  man.  So-and-so? 
.  .  .  He  had  been  wounded  in  Lorraine  and  was  now  in 
a  hospital  in  the  South.  Another  friend?  ,  .  .  Dead 
in  the  Vosges.  Another?  .  .  .  Disappeared  at  Char- 
leroi.  And  thus  had  continued  the  heroic  and  mournful 
roll-call.  The  others  were  still  living,  doing  brave  things. 
The  members  of  foreign  birth,  young  Poles,  English  resi- 
dents in  Paris  and  South  Americans,  had  finally  enlisted 
as  volunteers.  The  club  might  well  be  proud  of  its 
young  men  who  had  practised  arms  in  times  of  peace, 
for  now  they  were  all  jeopardizing  their  existence  at  the 
front.  Desnoyers  turned  his  face  away  as  though  he 
feared  to  meet  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend,  an  ironical 
and  questioning  expression.  Why  had  he  not  gone  with 
the  others  to  defend  the  land  in  which  he  was  liv- 
ing? .    .    . 

"To-morrow  I  will  go,"  repeated  Julio,  depressed  by 
this  recollection. 

But   he  went  toward  the   South  like   all   those  who 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  269 

were  fleeing  from  the  war.  The  following  morning 
Argensola  was  charged  to  get  him  a  railroad  ticket  for 
Bordeaux.  The  value  of  money  had  greatly  increased, 
but  fifty  francs,  opportunely  bestowed,  wrought  the  mira- 
cle and  procured  a  bit  of  numbered  cardboard  whose 
conquest  represented  many  days  of  waiting. 

"It  is  good  only  for  to-day,"  said  the  Spaniard,  "you 
will  have  to  take  the  night  train." 

Packing  was  not  a  very  serious  matter,  as  the  trains 
were  refusing  to  admit  anything  more  than  hand-luggage. 
Argensola  did  not  wish  to  accept  the  liberality  of  Julio 
who  tried  to  leave  all  his  money  with  him.  Heroes  need 
very  little  and  the  painter  of  souls  was  inspired  with 
heroic  resolution.  The  brief  harangue  of  Gallieni  in  tak- 
ing charge  of  the  defense  of  Paris,  he  had  adopted  as  his 
own.  He  intended  to  keep  up  his  courage  to  the  last, 
just  like  the  hardy  general. 

"Let  them  come,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  tragic  expres- 
sion.    "They  will  find  me  at  my  post !"  .    .    . 

His  post  was  the  studio  from  which  he  could  witness 
the  happenings  which  he  proposed  relating  to  coming 
generations.  He  would  entrench  himself  there  with  the 
eatables  and  wines.  Besides  he  had  a  plan — just  as 
soon  as  his  partner  should  disappear — of  bringing  to  live 
there  with  him  certain  lady-friends  who  were  wandering 
around  in  search  of  a  problematical  dinner,  and  feeling 
timid  in  the  solitude  of  their  own  quarters.  Danger 
often  gathers  congenial  folk  together  and  adds  a  new 
attractiveness  to  the  pleasures  of  a  community.  The 
tender  affections  of  the  prisoners  of  the  Terror,  when 
they  were  expecting  momentarily  to  be  conducted  to  the 
guillotine,  flashed  through  his  mind.  Let  us  drain  Life's 
goblet  at  one  draught  since  we  have  to  die!  .  .  .  The 
studio  of  the  rue  de  la  Pompa  was  about  to  witness  the 


270     FOUR  HORSE^MEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

mad  and  desperate  revels  of  a  castaway  bark  well-stocked 
with  provisions. 

Desnoyers  left  the  Gare  d'Orsay  in  a  first-class  com- 
partment, mentally  praising  the  good  order  with  which 
the  authorities  had  arranged  everything,  so  that  every 
traveller  could  have  his  own  seat.  At  the  Austerlitz  sta- 
tion, however,  a  human  avalanche  assaulted  the  train. 
The  doors  were  broken  open,  packages  and  children  came 
in  through  the  windows  like  projectiles.  The  people 
pushed  with  the  unreason  of  a  crowd  fleeing  before  a 
fire.  In  the  space  reserved  for  eight  persons,  fourteen 
installed  themselves;  the  passageways  were  heaped  with 
mountains  of  bags  and  valises  that  served  later  travel- 
lers for  seats.  All  class  distinctions  had  disappeared. 
The  villagers  invaded  by  preference  the  best  coaches,  be- 
lieving that  they  would  there  find  more  room.  Those 
holding  first-class  tickets  hunted  up  the  plainer  coaches 
in  the  vain  hope  of  travelling  without  being  crowded. 
On  the  cross  roads  were  waiting  from  the  day  before 
long  trains  made  up  of  cattle  cars.  All  the  stables  on 
wheels  were  filled  with  people  seated  on  the  wooden 
floor  or  in  chairs  brought  from  their  homes.  Every  train 
load  was  an  encampment  eager  to  take  up  its  march ; 
whenever  it  halted,  layers  of  greasy  papers,  hulls  and 
fruit  skins  collected  along  its  entire  length. 

The  invaders,  pushing  their  way  in,  put  up  with  many 
annoyances  and  pardoned  one  another  in  a  brotherly 
way.  "In  war  times,  war  measures,"  they  would  always 
say  as  a  last  excuse.  And  each  one  was  pressing  closer 
to  his  neighbor  in  order  to  make  a  few  more  inches  of 
room,  and  helping  to  wedge  his  scanty  baggage  among 
the  other  bundles  swaying  most  precariously  above. 
Little  by  little,  Desnoyers  was  losing  all  his  advantage 
as  a  first  comer.  These  poor  people  who  had  been  wait- 
ing for  the  train  from  four  in  the  morning  till  eight  at 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  271 

night,  awakened  his  pity.  The  women,  groaning  with 
weariness,  were  standing  in  the  corridors,  looking  with 
ferocious  envy  at  those  who  had  seats.  The  children 
were  bleating  like  hungry  kids.  Julio  finally  gave  up  his 
place,  sharing  with  the  needy  and  improvident  the  boun- 
tiful supply  of  eatables  with  which  Argensola  had  pro- 
vided him.  The  station  restaurants  had  all  been  emptied 
of  food. 

During  the  train's  long  wait,  soldiers  only  were  seen 
on  the  platform,  soldiers  who  were  hastening  at  the 
call  of  the  trumpet,  to  take  their  places  again  in  the 
strings  of  cars  which  were  constantly  steaming  toward 
Paris.  At  the  signal  stations,  long  war  trains  were  wait- 
ing for  the  road  to  be  clear  that  they  might  continue 
their  journey.  The  cuirassiers,  wearing  a  yellow  vest 
over  their  steel  breastplate,  were  seated  with  hanging  legs 
in  the  doorways  of  the  stable  cars,  from  whose  interior 
came  repeated  neighing.  Upon  the  flat  cars  were  rows 
of  gun  carriages.  The  slender  throats  of  the  seventy- 
fives  were  pointed  upwards  like  telescopes. 

Young  Desnowers  passed  the  night  in  the  aisle,  seated 
on  a  valise,  noting  the  sodden  sleep  of  those  around  him, 
worn  out  by  weariness  and  exhaustion.  It  was  a  cruel 
and  endless  night  of  jerks,  shrieks  and  stops  punctuated 
by  snores.  At  every  station,  the  trumpets  were  sound- 
ing precipitously  as  though  the  enemy  were  right  upon 
them.  The  soldiers  from  the  South  were  hurrying  to 
their  posts,  and  at  brief  intervals  another  detachment  of 
men  was  dragged  along  the  rails  toward  Paris.  They  all 
appeared  gay,  and  anxious  to  reach  the  scene  of  slaughter 
as  scon  as  possible.  Many  were  regretting  the  delays, 
fearing  that  they  might  arrive  too  late.  Leaning  out  of 
the  window,  Julio  heard  the  dialogues  and  shouts  on  the 
platforms  impregnated  with  the  acrid  odor  of  men  and 
mules.     All  were  evincing  an  unquenchable  confidence. 


272     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"The  Bochesf  very  numerous,  with  huge  cannons,  with 
many  mitrailleuse  .  .  .  but  we  only  have  to  charge  with 
our  bayonets  to  make  them  run  like  rabbits!" 

The  attitude  of  those  going  to  meet  death  was  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  panic  and  doubt  of  those  who  were  de- 
serting Paris.  An  old  and  much-decorated  gentleman, 
type  of  a  jubilee  functionary,  kept  questioning  Desnoyers 
whenever  the  train  started  on  again — "Do  you  believe 
that  they  will  get  as  far  as  Tours?"  Before  receiving 
his  reply,  he  would  fall  asleep.  Brutish  sleep  was 
marching  down  the  aisles  with  leaden  feet.  At  every 
junction  the  old  man  would  start  up  and  suddenly  ask, 
"Do  you  believe  that  we  will  get  as  far  as  Bordeaux?" 
.  .  .  And  his  great  desire  not  to  halt  until,  with  his 
family,  he  had  reached  an  absolutely  secure  refuge,  made 
him  accept  as  oracles  all  the  vague  responses. 

At  daybreak,  they  saw  the  Territorialists  guarding  the 
roads.  They  were  armed  with  old  muskets,  and  were 
wearing  the  red  kepis  as  their  only  military  distinction. 
They  were  following  the  opposite  course  of  the  military 
trains. 

In  the  station  at  Bordeaux,  the  civilian  crowds  strug- 
gling to  get  out  or  to  enter  other  cars,  were  mingling  with 
the  troops.  The  trumpets  were  incessantly  sounding 
their  brazen  notes,  calling  the  soldiers  together.  Many 
were  men  of  darkest  coloring,  natives  with  wide  gray 
breeches  and  red  caps  above  their  black  or  bronzed  faces. 

Julio  saw  a  train  bearing  wounded  from  the  battles 
of  Flanders  and  Lorraine.  Their  worn  and  dirty  uni- 
forms were  enlivened  by  the  whiteness  of  the  bandages 
sustaining  the  wounded  limbs  or  protecting  the  broken 
heads.  All  were  trying  to  smile,  although  with  livid 
mouths  and  feverish  eyes,  at  their  first  glimpse  of  the 
land  of  the  South  as  it  emerged  from  the  mist  bathed 
in  the  sunlight,  and  covered  with  the  regal  vestures  of 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  273 

its  vineyards.  The  men  from  the  North  stretched  out 
their  hands  for  the  fruit  that  the  women  were  offering 
them,  tasting  with  delight  the  sweet  grapes  of  the  coun- 
try. 

For  four  days  the  distracted  lover  lived  in  Bordeaux, 
stunned  and  bewildered  by  the  agitation  of  a  provincial 
city  suddenly  converted  into  a  capital.  The  hotels  were 
overcrowded,  many  notables  contenting  themselves  with 
servants'  quarters.  There  was  not  a  vacant  seat  in  the 
cafes ;  the  sidewalks  could  not  accommodate  the  extra- 
ordinary assemblage.  The  President  was  installed  in 
the  Prefecture;  the  State  Departments  were  established 
in  the  schools  and  museums ;  two  theatres  were  fitted  up 
for  the  future  reunions  of  the  Senate  and  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies.  Julio  was  lodged  in  a  filthy,  disreputable 
hotel  at  the  end  of  a  foul-smelling  alley.  A  little  Cupid 
adorned  the  crystals  of  the  door,  and  the  looking-glass 
in  his  room  was  scratched  with  names  and  unspeakable 
phrases — souvenirs  of  the  occupants  of  an  hour  .  .  . 
and  yet  many  grand  ladies,  hunting  in  vain  for  temporary 
residence,  would  have  envied  him  his  good  fortune. 

All  his  investigations  proved  fruitless.  The  friends 
whom  he  encountered  in  the  fugitive  crowd  were  think- 
ing only  of  their  own  affairs.  They  could  talk  of  noth- 
ing but  incidents  of  the  installation,  repeating  the  news 
gathered  from  the  ministers  with  whom  they  were  living 
on  familiar  terms,  or  mentioning  with  a  mysterious  air, 
the  great  battle  which  was  going  on  stretching  from  the 
vicinity  of  Paris  to  Verdun.  A  pupil  of  his  days  of 
glory,  whose  former  elegance  was  now  attired  in  the 
uniform  of  a  nurse,  gave  him  some  vague  information. 
■"The  little  Madame  Laurier?  ...  I  remember  hear- 
ing that  she  was  living  somewhere  near  here.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  in  Biarritz."  Julio  needed  no  more  than  this 
to  continue  his  journey.     To  Biarritz! 


274     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

The  first  person  that  he  encountered  on  his  arrival  was 
Chichi.  She  declared  that  the  town  was  impossible  be- 
cause of  the  families  of  rich  Spaniards  who  were  sum- 
mering there.  "The  Boches  are  in  the  majority,  and  I 
pass  a  miserable  existence  quarrelling  with  tliem.  .  .  . 
I  shall  finally  have  to  live  alone."  Then  he  met  his 
mother — embraces  and  tears.  Afterwards  he  saw  his 
Aunt  Elena  in  the  hotel  parlors,  most  enthusiastic  over 
the  country  and  the  summer  colony. 

She  could  talk  at  great  length  with  many  of  them 
about  the  decadence  of  France.  They  were  all  expect- 
ing to  receive  the  news  from  one  moment  to  another,  that 
the  Kaiser  had  entered  the  Capital.  Ponderous  men  who 
had  never  done  anything  in  all  their  lives,  were  criticiz- 
ing the  defects  and  indolence  of  the  Republic.  Young 
men  whose  aristocracy  aroused  Dona  Elena's  enthusiasm, 
broke  forth  into  apostrophes  against  the  corruption  of 
Paris,  corruption  that  they  had  studied  thoroughly,  from 
sunset  to  sunrise,  in  the  virtuous  schools  of  Montmartre. 
They  all  adored  Germany  where  they  had  never  been, 
or  which  they  knew  only  through  the  reels  of  the  mov- 
ing picture  films.  They  criticized  events  as  though  they 
were  witnessing  a  bull  fight.  "The  Germans  have  the 
snap!  You  can't  fool  with  them!  They  are  fine 
brutes!"  And  they  appeared  to  admire  this  inhumanity 
as  the  most  admirable  characteristic.  "Why  will  they 
not  say  that  in  their  own  home  on  the  other  side  of 
the  frontier?"  Chichi  would  protest.  "Why  do  they 
come  into  their  neighbor's  country  to  ridicule  his  trou- 
bles? .  .  .  Possibly  they  consider  it  a  sign  of  their 
wonderful  good-breeding!" 

But  Julio  had  not  gone  to  Biarritz  to  live  with  his 
family.  .  .  .  The  very  day  of  his  arrival,  he  saw 
Marguerite's  mother  in  the  distance.  She  was  alone. 
His  inquiries  developed  the  information  that  her  daughter 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  275 

was  living  in  Pau.  She  was  a  trained  nurse  taking  care 
of  a  wounded  member  of  the  family.  "Her  brother  .  .  . 
undoubtedly  it  is  her  brother,"  thought  Julio.  And  he 
again  continued  his  trip,  this  time  going  to  Pau. 

His  visits  to  the  hospitals  there  were  also  unavailing. 
Nobody  seemed  to  know  Marguerite.  Every  day  a  train 
was  arriving  with  a  new  load  of  bleeding  flesh,  but  her 
brother  was  not  among  the  wounded.  A  Sister  of  Chari- 
ty, believing  that  he  was  in  search  of  some  one  of  his 
family,  took  pity  on  him  and  gave  him  some  helpful 
directions.  He  ought  to  go  to  Lourdes;  there  were 
many  of  the  wounded  there  and  many  of  the  military 
nurses.  So  Desnoyers  immediately  took  the  short  cut 
between  Pau  and  Lourdes. 

He  had  never  visited  the  sacred  city  whose  name  was 
so  frequently  on  his  mother's  lips.  For  Dona  Luisa,  the 
French  nation  was  Lourdes.  In  her  discussions  with  her 
sister  and  other  foreign  ladies  who  were  praying  that 
France  might  be  exterminated  for  its  impiety,  the  good 
seiiora  always  summed  up  her  opinions  in  the  same 
words: — "When  the  Virgin  wished  to  make  her  appear- 
ance in  our  day,  she  chose  France.  This  country,  there- 
fore, cannot  be  as  bad  as  you  say.  .  .  .  When  I  see 
that  she  appears  in  Berlin,  we  will  then  re-discuss  the 
matter," 

But  Desnoyers  was  not  there  to  confirm  his  mother's 
artless  opinions.  Just  as  soon  as  he  had  found  a  room 
in  a  hotel  near  the  river,  he  had  hastened  to  the  big 
hostelry,  now  converted  into  a  hospital.  The  guard 
told  him  that  he  could  not  speak  to  the  Director  until 
the  afternoon.  In  order  to  curb  his  impatience  he  walked 
through  the  street  leading  to  the  basilica,  past  all  the 
booths  and  shops  with  pictures  and  pious  souvenirs 
which  have  converted  the  place  into  a  big  bazaar.  Here 
and    in    the    gardens    adjoining    the    church,    he    saw 


276    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

wounded  convalescents  with  uniforms  stained  with 
traces  of  the  combat.  Their  cloaks  were  greatly  soiled 
in  spite  of  repeated  brushings.  The  mud,  the  blood  and 
the  rain  had  left  indelible  spots  and  made  them  as 
stiff  as  cardboard.  Some  of  the  wounded  had  cut  their 
sleeves  in  order  to  avoid  the  cruel  friction  on  their 
shattered  arms,  others  still  showed  on  their  trousers  the 
rents  made  by  the  devastating  shells. 

They  were  fighters  of  all  ranks  and  of  many  races — 
infantry,  cavalry,  artillerymen ;  soldiers  from  the  metrop- 
olis and  from  the  colonies;  French  farmers  and  African 
sharpshooters;  red  heads,  faces  of  Mohammedan  olive 
and  the  black  countenances  of  the  Sengalese,  with  eyes  of 
fire,  and  thick,  bluish  blubber  lips ;  some  showing  the 
good-nature  and  sedentary  obesity  of  the  middle-class 
man  suddenly  converted  into  a  warrior;  others  sinewy, 
alert,  with  the  aggressive  profile  of  men  born  to  fight, 
and  experienced  in  foreign  fields. 

The  city,  formerly  visited  by  the  hopeful.  Catholic 
sick,  was  now  invaded  by  a  crowd  no  less  dolorous  but 
clad  in  carnival  colors.  All,  in  spite  of  their  physical 
distress,  had  a  certain  air  of  good  cheer  and  satisfaction. 
They  had  seen  Death  very  near,  slipping  out  from  his 
bony  claws  into  a  new  joy  and  zest  in  life.  With  their 
cloaks  adorned  with  medals,  their  theatrical  Moorish 
garments,  their  kepis  and  their  African  headdresses,  this 
heroic  band  presented,  nevertheless,  a  lamentable  aspect. 

Very  few  still  preserved  the  noble  vertical  carriage,  the 
pride  of  the  superior  human  being.  They  were  walk- 
ing along  bent  almost  double,  limping,  dragging  them- 
selves forward  by  the  help  of  a  staff  or  friendly  arm. 
Others  had  to  let  themselves  be  pushed  along,  stretched 
out  on  the  handcarts  which  had  so  often  conducted  the 
devout  sick  from  the  station  to  the  Grotto  of  the  Virgin. 
Some  were  feeling  their  way  along,  blindly,  leaning  on 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  277 

a  child  or  nurse.  The  first  encounters  in  Belgium  and 
in  the  East,  a  mere  half-dozen  battles,  had  been  enough  to 
produce  these  physical  wrecks  still  showing  a  manly 
nobility  in  spite  of  the  most  horrible  outrages.  These 
organisms,  struggling  so  tenaciously  to  regain  their  hold 
on  life,  bringing  their  reviving  energies  out  into  the 
sunlight,  represented  but  the  most  minute  part  of  the 
number  mowed  down  by  the  scythe  of  Death.  Back  of 
them  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  comrades  groan- 
ing on  hospital  beds  from  which  they  would  probably 
never  rise.  Thousands  and  thousands  were  hidden  for- 
ever in  the  bosom  of  the  Earth  moistened  by  their  death 
agony — fatal  land  which,  upon  receiving  a  hail  of  pro- 
jectiles, brought  forth  a  harvest  of  bristling  crosses! 

War  now  showed  itself  to  Desnoyers  with  all  its 
cruel  hideousness.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  speak  of 
it  heretofore  as  those  in  robust  health  speak  of  death, 
knowing  that  it  exists  and  is  horrible,  but  seeing  it  afar 
off  ...  so  far  off  that  it  arouses  no  real  emotion. 
The  explosions  of  the  shells  were  accompanying  their 
destructive  brutality  with  a  ferocious  mockery,  gro- 
tesquely disfiguring  the  human  body.  He  saw  wounded 
objects  just  beginning  to  recover  their  vital  force  who 
were  but  rough  skeletons  of  men,  frightful  caricatures, 
human  rags,  saved  from  the  tomb  by  the  audacities  of 
science — trunks  with  heads  which  were  dragged  along  on 
wheeled  platforms ;  fragments  of  skulls  whose  brains 
were  throbbing  under  an  artificial  cap ;  beings  without 
arms  and  without  legs,  resting  in  the  bottom  of  little 
wagons,  like  bits  of  plaster  models  or  scraps  from  the  dis- 
secting room ;  faces  without  noses  that  looked  like  skulls 
with  great,  black  nasal  openings.  And  these  half-men  were 
talking,  smoking,  laughing,  satisfied  to  see  the  sky,  to 
feel  the  caress  of  the  sun,  to  have  come  back  to  life, 
dominated  by  that  sovereign  desire  to  live  which  trust- 


2;8     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ingly  forgets  present  misery  in  the  confident  hope  of 
something  better. 

So  strongly  was  Julio  impressed  that  for  a  little  while 
he  forgot  the  purpose  which  had  brought  him  thither.  .  .  . 
If  those  who  provoke  war  from  diplomatic  chambers  or 
from  the  tables  of  the  Military  Staff  could  but  see  it — 
not  in  the  field  of  battle  fired  with  the  enthusiasm  which 
prejudices  judgments — ^but  in  cold  blood,  as  it  is  seen 
in  the  hospitals  and  cemeteries,  in  the  wrecks  left  in 
its  trail !   .    .    . 

To  Julio's  imagination  this  terrestrial  globe  appeared 
like  an  enormous  ship  sailing  through  infinity.  Its  crews 
— poor  humanity — had  spent  century  after  century  in 
exterminating  each  other  on  the  deck.  They  did  not 
even  know  what  existed  under  their  feet,  in  the  hold  of 
the  vessel.  To  occupy  the  same  portion  of  the  surface 
in  the  sunlight  seemed  to  be  the  ruling  desire  of  each 
group.  Men,  considered  superior  human  beings,  were 
pushing  these  masses  to  extermination  in  order  to  scale 
the  last  bridge  and  hold  the  helm,  controlling  the  course 
of  the  boat.  And  all  those  who  felt  the  overmastering 
ambition  for  absolute  command  knew  the  same  thing 
.  .  .  nothing.  Not  one  of  them  could  say  with  certainty 
what  lay  beyond  the  visible  horizon,  nor  whither  the  ship 
was  drifting.  The  sullen  hostility  of  mystery  surrounded 
them  all ;  their  life  was  precarious,  necessitating  inces- 
sant care  in  order  to  maintain  it,  yet  in  spite  of  that,  the 
crew  for  ages  and  ages,  had  never  known  an  instant  of 
agreement,  of  team  work,  of  clear  reason.  Periodically 
half  of  them  would  clash  with  the  other  half.  They 
killed  each  other  that  they  might  enslave  the  vanquished 
on  the  rolling  deck  floating  over  the  abyss ;  they  fought 
that  they  might  cast  their  victims  from  the  vessel,  filling 
its  wake  with  cadavers.  And  from  the  demented  throng 
there  were  still  springing  up  gloomy  sophistries  to  prove 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  279 

that  a  state  of  war  was  the  perfect  state,  that  it  ought 
to  go  on  forever,  that  it  was  a  bad  dream  on  the  part  of 
the  crew  to  wish  to  regard  each  other  as  brothers  with  a 
common  destiny,  enveloped  in  the  same  unsteady  envi- 
ronment of  mystery.  .  .  .    Ah,  human  misery ! 

Julio  was  drawn  out  of  these  pessimistic  reflections  by 
the  childish  glee  which  many  of  the  convalescents  were 
evincing.  Some  were  Mussulmans,  sharpshooters  from 
Algeria  and  Morocco.  In  Lourdes,  as  they  might  be  any- 
where, they  were  interested  only  in  the  gifts  which  the 
people  were  showering  upon  them  with  patriotic  affec- 
tion. They  all  surveyed  with  indifference  the  basilica 
inhabited  by  "the  white  lady,"  their  only  preoccupation 
being  to  beg  for  cigars  and  sweets. 

Finding  themselves  regaled  by  the  dominant  race,  they 
became  greatly  puffed  up,  daring  everything  like  mis- 
chievous children.  What  pleased  them  most  was  the  fact 
that  the  ladies  would  take  them  by  the  hand.  Blessed 
war  that  permitted  them  to  approach  and  touch  these 
white  women,  perfumed  and  smiling  as  they  appeared  in 
their  dreams  of  the  paradise  of  the  blest!  "Lady  .  .  . 
Lady,"  they  would  sigh,  looking  at  them  with  dark, 
sparkling  eyes.  And  not  content  with  the  hand,  their 
dark  paws  would  venture  the  length  of  the  entire  arm 
while  the  ladies  laughed  at  this  tremulous  adoration. 
Others  would  go  through  the  crowds,  offering  their  right 
hand  to  all  the  women.  "We  touch  hands."  .  .  .  And 
then  they  would  go  away  satisfied  after  receiving  the 
hand  clasp. 

Desnoyers  wandered  a  long  time  around  the  basilica 
where,  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  were  long  rows  of 
wheeled  chairs  occupied  by  the  wounded.  Officers  and 
soldiers  rested  many  hours  in  the  blue  shade,  watching 
their  comrades  who  were  able  to  use  their  legs.  The 
sacred  grotto  was  resplendent  with  the  lights  from  hun- 


28o     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

dreds  of  candles.  Devout  crowds  were  kneeling  in  the 
open  air,  fixing  their  eyes  in  supplication  on  the  sacred 
stones  whilst  their  thoughts  were  flying  far  away  to  the 
fields  of  battle,  making  their  petitions  with  that  confi- 
dence in  divinity  which  accompanies  every  distress. 
Among  the  kneeling  mass  were  many  soldiers  with 
bandaged  heads,  kepis  in  hand  and  tearful  eyes. 

Up  and  down  the  double  staircase  of  the  basilica  were 
flitting  women,  clad  in  white,  with  spotless  headdresses 
that  fluttered  in  such  a  way  that  they  appeared  like  flying 
doves.  These  were  the  nurses  and  Sisters  of  Charity 
guiding  the  steps  of  the  injured.  Desnoyers  thought  he 
recognized  Marguerite  in  every  one  of  them,  but  the 
prompt  disillusion  following  each  of  these  discoveries 
soon  made  him  doubtful  about  the  outcome  of  his  jour- 
ney. She  was  not  in  Lourdes,  either.  He  would  never 
find  her  in  that  France  so  immeasurably  expanded  by  the 
war  that  it  had  converted  every  town  into  a  hospital. 

His  afternoon  explorations  were  no  more  successful. 
The  employees  listened  to  his  interrogations  with  a  dis- 
traught air.  He  could  come  back  again ;  just  now  they 
were  taken  up  with  the  announcement  that  another  hos- 
pital train  was  on  the  way.  The  great  battle  was  still 
going  on  near  Paris.  They  had  to  improvise  lodgings 
for  the  new  consignment  of  mutilated  humanity.  In 
order  to  pass  away  the  time  until  his  return,  Desnoyers 
went  back  to  the  garden  near  the  grotto.  He  was  plan- 
ning to  return  to  Pau  that  night;  there  was  evidently 
nothing  more  to  do  at  Lourdes.  In  what  direction  should 
he  now  continue  his  search  ? 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  thrill  down  his  back — the  same 
indefinable  sensation  which  used  to  warn  him  of  her 
presence  when  they  were  meeting  in  the  gardens  of  Paris. 
Marguerite  was  going  to  present  herself  unexpectedly 
as  in  the  old  days  without  his  knowing  from  exactly 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  281 

what  spot — as  though  she  came  up  out  of  the  earth  or 
descended  from  the  clouds. 

After  a  second's  thought  he  smiled  bitterly.  Mere 
tricks  of  his  desire!  Illusions!  .  .  .  Upon  turning  his 
head  he  recognized  the  falsity  of  his  hope.  Nobody  was 
following  his  footsteps;  he  was  the  only  being  going 
down  the  center  of  the  avenue.  Near  him,  in  the  diapha- 
nous white  of  a  guardian  angel,  was  a  nurse.  Poor  blind 
man !  ,  .  .  Desnoyers  was  passing  on  when  a  quick  move- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  white-clad  woman,  an  evident 
desire  to  escape  notice,  to  hide  her  face  by  looking  at  the 
plants,  attracted  his  attention.  He  was  slow  in  recogniz- 
ing her.  Two  little  ringlets  escaping  from  the  band  of 
her  cap  made  him  guess  the  hidden  head  of  hair ;  the  feet 
shod  in  white  were  the  signs  which  enabled  him  to  recon- 
struct the  person  somewhat  disfigured  by  the  severe 
uniform.  Her  face  was  pale  and  sad.  There  wasn't  a 
trace  left  in  it  of  the  old  vanities  that  used  to  give  it  its 
childish,  doll-like  beauty.  In  the  depths  of  those  great, 
dark-circled  eyes  life  seemed  to  be  reflected  in  new 
forms.  .  .  .  Marguerite  I 

They  stared  at  one  another  for  a  long  while,  as  though 
hypnotized  with  surprise.  She  looked  alarmed  when  Des- 
noyers advanced  a  step  toward  her.  No  .  .  .  No!  Her 
eyes,  her  hands,  her  entire  body  seemed  to  protest,  to 
repel  his  approach,  to  hold  him  motionless.  Fear  that  he 
might  come  near  her,  made  her  go  toward  him.  She  said 
a  few  words  to  the  soldier  who  remained  on  the  bench,, 
receiving  across  the  bandage  on  his  face  a  ray  of  sunlight 
which  he  did  not  appear  to  feel.  Then  she  rose,  going 
to  meet  Julio,  and  continued  forward,  indicating  by  a 
gesture  that  they  must  find  some  place  further  on  where 
the  wounded  man  could  not  hear  them. 

She  led  the  way  to  a  side  path  from  which  she  could 
see  the  blind  man  confided  to  her  care.     They  stood 


282     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

motionless,  face  to  face.  Desnoyers  wished  to  say  many 
things ;  many  .  .  .  but  he  hesitated,  not  knowing  how  to 
frame  his  complaints,  his  pleadings,  his  endearments. 
Far  above  all  these  thoughts  towered  one,  fatal,  dominant 
and  wrathful. 

"Who  is  that  man?" 

The  spiteful  accent,  the  harsh  voice  with  which  he  said 
these  words  surprised  him  as  though  they  came  from 
someone  else's  mouth. 

The  nurse  looked  at  him  with  her  great  limpid  eyes, 
eyes  that  seemed  forever  freed  from  contractions  of  sur- 
prise or  fear.  Her  response  slipped  from  her  with  equal 
directness. 

"It  is  Laurier.  ...   It  is  my  husband." 

Laurier!  .  .  .  Julio  looked  doubtfully  and  for  a  long 
time  at  the  soldier  before  he  could  be  convinced.  That 
blind  officer  motionless  on  the  bench,  that  figure  of  heroic 
grief,  was  Laurier!  ...  At  first  glance,  he  appeared 
prematurely  old  with  roughened  and  bronzed  skin  so  fur- 
rowed with  lines  that  they  converged  like  rays  around  all 
the  openings  of  his  face.  His  hair  was  beginning  to 
whiten  on  the  temples  and  in  the  beard  which  covered 
his  cheeks.  He  had  lived  twenty  years  in  that  one  month. 
...  At  the  same  time  he  appeared  younger,  with  a  youth- 
fulness  that  was  radiating  an  inward  vigor,  with  the 
strength  of  a  soul  which  has  suffered  the  most  violent 
emotions  and,  firm  and  serene  in  the  satisfaction  of  duty 
fulfilled,  can  no  longer  know  fear. 

As  Desnoyers  contemplated  him,  he  felt  both  admira- 
tion and  jealousy.  He  was  ashamed  to  admit  the  aversion 
inspired  by  the  wounded  man,  so  sorely  wounded  that  he 
was  unable  to  see  what  was  going  on  around  him.  His 
hatred  was  a  form  of  cowardice,  terrifying  in  its  persist- 
ence. How  pensive  were  Marguerite's  eyes  if  she  took 
them  off  her  patient  for  a  few  seconds!  .  .  .  She  had 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  283 

never  looked  at  him  in  that  way.  He  knew  all  the  amor- 
ous gradations  of  her  glance,  but  her  fixed  gaze  at  this 
injured  man  was  something  entirely  different,  something 
that  he  had  never  seen  before. 

He  spoke  with  the  fury  of  a  lover  who  discovers  an 
infidelity. 

"And  for  this  thing  you  have  run  away  without  warn- 
ing, without  a  word!  .  .  .  You  have  abandoned  me  in 
order  to  go  in  search  of  him.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  why  did  you 
come  ?  .  .  .  Why  did  you  come  ?"  .  .  . 

"I  came  because  it  was  my  duty." 

Then  she  spoke  like  a  mother  who  takes  advantage  of 
a  parenthesis  of  surprise  in  an  irascible  child's  temper, 
in  order  to  counsel  self-control,  and  explained  how  it  had 
all  happened.  She  had  received  the  news  of  Laurier's 
wounding  just  as  she  and  her  mother  were  preparing  to 
leave  Paris.  She  had  not  hesitated  an  instant;  her  duty 
was  to  hasten  to  the  aid  of  this  man.  She  had  been  doing 
a  great  deal  of  thinking  in  the  last  few  weeks;  the  war 
had  made  her  ponder  much  on  the  values  in  life.  Her 
eyes  had  been  getting  glimpses  of  new  horizons;  our 
destiny  is  not  mere  pleasure  and  selfish  satisfaction ;  we 
ought  to  take  our  part  in  pain  and  sacrifice. 

She  had  wanted  to  work  for  her  country,  to  share  the 
general  stress,  to  serve  as  other  women  did;  and  since 
she  was  disposed  to  devote  herself  to  strangers,  was  it 
not  natural  that  she  should  prefer  to  help  this  man  whom 
she  had  so  greatly  wronged?  .  .  .  There  still  lived  in  her 
memory  the  moment  in  which  she  had  seen  him  approach 
the  station,  completely  alone  among  so  many  who  had 
the  consolation  of  loving  arms  when  departing  in  search 
of  death.  Her  pity  had  become  still  more  acute  on  hear- 
ing of  his  misfortune.  A  shell  had  exploded  near  him, 
killing  all  those  around  him.  Of  his  many  wounds,  the 
only  serious  one  was  that  on  his  face.  He  had  completely 


284    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

lost  the  sight  of  one  eye ;  and  the  doctors  were  keeping 
the  other  bound  up  hoping  to  save  it.  But  she  was  very 
doubtful  about  it;  she  was  almost  sure  that  Laurier 
would  be  blind. 

Marguerite's  voice  trembled  when  saying  this  as  if  she 
were  going  to  cry,  although  her  eyes  were  tearless.  They 
did  not  now  feel  the  irresistible  necessity  for  tears. 
Weeping  had  become  something  superfluous,  like  many 
other  luxuries  of  peaceful  days.  Her  eyes  had  seen  so 
much  in  so  few  days !  .  .  . 

"How  you  love  him !"  exclaimed  Julio. 

Fearing  that  they  might  be  overheard  and  in  order  to 
keep  him  at  a  distance,  she  had  been  speaking  as  though 
to  a  friend.  But  her  lover's  sadness  broke  down  her 
reserve. 

"No,  I  love  you.  ...   I  shall  always  love  you." 

The  simplicity  with  which  she  said  this  and  her  sudden 
tenderness  of  tone  revived  Desmoyers'  hopes. 

"And  the  other  one  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

Upon  receiving  her  reply,  it  seemed  to  him  as  though 
something  had  just  passed  across  the  sun,  veiling  its  light 
temporarily.  It  was  as  though  a  cloud  had  drifted  over 
the  land  and  over  his  thoughts,  enveloping  them  in  an 
unbearable  chill, 

"I  love  him,  too." 

She  said  it  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  implore  pardon, 
with  the  sad  sincerity  of  one  who  has  given  up  lying  and 
weeps  in  foreseeing  the  injury  that  the  truth  must  inflict. 

He  felt  his  hard  wrath  suddenly  dwindling  like  a 
crumbling  mountain.  Ah,  Marguerite !  His  voice  was 
tremulous  and  despairing.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
everything  between  these  two  was  going  to  end  thus 
simply?  Were  her  former  vows  mere  lies?  .  .  .  They 
had  been  attracted  to  each  other  by  an  irresistible  affinity 
in  order  to  be  together  forever,  to  be  one.  .  .  .  And  now. 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  285 

suddenly  hardened  by  indifference,  were  they  to  drift 
apart  like  two  unfriendly  bodies?  .  .  .  What  did  this 
absurdity  about  loving  him  at  the  same  time  that  she 
loved  her  former  husband  mean,  anyway? 

Marguerite  hung  her  head,  murmuring  desperately : 

"You  are  a  man,  I  am  a  woman.  You  would  never 
understand  me,  no  matter  what  I  might  say.  Men  are 
not  able  to  comprehend  certain  of  our  mysteries.  ...  A 
woman  would  be  better  able  to  appreciate  the  com- 
plexit>-." 

Desnoyers  felt  that  he  must  know  his  fate  in  all  its 
cruelty.  She  might  speak  without  fear.  He  felt  strong 
enough  to  bear  the  blow.  .  .  .  What  had  Laurier  said 
when  he  found  that  he  was  being  so  tenderly  cared  for 
by  Marguerite?  .  .  . 

"He  does  not  know  who  I  am,  .  .  .  He  believes  me  to 
be  a  war-nurse,  like  the  rest,  who  pities  him  seeing  him 
alone  and  blind  with  no  relatives  to  write  to  him  or  visit 
him.  ...  At  certain  times,  I  have  almost  suspected  that 
he  guesses  the  truth.  My  voice,  the  touch  of  my  hands 
made  him  shiver  at  first,  as  though  with  an  unpleasant 
sensation.  I  have  told  him  that  I  am  a  Belgian  lady  who 
has  lost  her  loved  ones  and  is  alone  in  the  world.  He 
has  told  me  his  life  story  very  sketchily,  as  if  he  desired 
to  forget  a  hated  past.  .  .  .  Never  one  disagreeable  word 
about  his  former  wife.  There  are  nights  when  I  think 
that  he  knows  me,  that  he  takes  advantage  of  his  blind- 
ness in  order  to  prolong  his  feigned  ignorance,  and  that 
distresses  me.  I  long  for  him  to  recover  his  sight,  for  the- 
doctors  to  save  that  doubtful  eye — and  yet  at  the  same 
time  I  feel  afraid.  What  will  he  say  when  he  recognizes 
me  ?  .  .  .  But,  no ;  it  is  better  that  he  should  see,  no  matter 
what  may  result.  You  cannot  understand  my  anxiety, 
you  cannot  know  what  I  am  suffering." 


286     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

She  was  silent  for  an  instant,  trying  to  regain  her  self- 
control,  again  tortured  with  the  agony  of  her  soul. 

"Oh,  the  war!"  she  resumed.  "What  changes  in  our 
life !  Two  months  ago,  my  present  situation  would  have 
appeared  impossible,  unimaginable.  ...  I  caring  for  my 
husband,  fearing  that  he  would  discover  my  identity  and 
leave  me,  yet  at  the  same  time,  wishing  that  he  would 
recognize  me  and  pardon  me.  ...  It  is  only  one  week 
that  I  have  been  with  him.  I  disguise  my  voice  when  I 
can,  and  avoid  words  that  may  reveal  the  truth  .  .  .  but 
this  cannot  keep  up  much  longer.  It  is  only  in  novels 
that  such  painful  situations  turn  out  happily." 

Doubt  suddenly  overwhelmed  her. 

"I  believe,"  she  continued,  "that  he  has  recognized  me 
from  the  first.  .  .  .  He  is  silent  and  feigns  ignorance  be- 
cause he  despises  me  .  .  .  because  he  can  never  bring 
himself  to  pardon  me.  I  have  been  so  bad!  ...  I  have 
wronged  him  so !"  .  .  . 

She  was  recalling  the  long  and  reflective  silences  of 
the  wounded  man  after  she  had  dropped  some  imprudent 
words.  After  two  days  of  submission  to  her  care,  he  had 
been  somewhat  rebellious,  avoiding  going  out  with  her 
for  a  walk.  Because  of  his  blind  helplessness,  and  com- 
prehending the  uselessness  of  his  resistance,  he  had  finally 
yielded  in  passive  silence. 

"Let  him  think  what  he  will  I"  concluded  Marguerite 
courageously.  "Let  him  despise  me !  I  am  here  where  I 
ought  to  be.  I  need  his  forgiveness,  but  if  he  does  not 
pardon  me,  I  shall  stay  with  him  just  the  same.  .  .  . 
There  are  moments  when  I  wish  that  he  may  never 
recover  his  sight,  so  that  he  may  always  need  me,  so  that 
I  may  pass  my  life  at  his  side,  sacrificing  everything  for 
him." 

"And  I  ?"  said  Desnoyers. 

Marguerite  looked  at  him  with  clouded  eyes  as  though 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  287 

she  were  just  awaking.  It  was  true — and  the  other  one  ? 
.  .  .  Kindled  by  the  proposed  sacrifice  which  was  to  be 
her  expiation,  she  had  forgotten  the  man  before  her. 

"You !"  she  said  after  a  long  pause.  "You  must  leave 
me.  .  ,  .  Life  is  not  what  we  have  thought  it.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  war,  we  might,  perhaps,  have  realized  our 
flream,  but  now!  ,  .  .  Listen  carefully  and  try  to  under- 
stand. For  the  remainder  of  my  life,  I  shall  carry  the 
heaviest  burden,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  it  will  be  sweet, 
since  the  more  it  weighs  me  down  the  greater  will  my 
atonement  be.  Never  will  I  leave  this  man  whom  I  have 
so  grievously  wronged,  now  that  he  is  more  alone  in  the 
world  and  will  need  protection  like  a  child.  Why  do  you 
come  to  share  my  fate  ?  How  could  it  be  possible  for  you 
to  live  with  a  nurse  constantly  at  the  side  of  a  blind  and 
worthy  man  whom  we  would  constantly  offend  with  our 
[^assion?  .  .  .  No,  it  is  better  for  us  to  part.  Go  your 
way,  alone  and  untrammelled.  Leave  me ;  you  will  meet 
other  women  who  will  make  you  more  happy  than  L 
Yours  is  the  temperament  that  finds  new  pleasures  at 
every  step." 

She  stood  firmly  to  her  decision.  Her  voice  was  calm, 
but  back  of  it  trembled  the  emotion  of  a  last  farewell  to 
a  joy  which  was  going  from  her  forever.  The  man 
would  be  loved  by  others  .  .  .  and  she  was  giving  him 
up!  .  .  .  But  the  noble  sadness  of  the  sacrifice  restored 
her  courage.  Only  by  this  renunciation  could  she  expiate 
her  sins. 

Julio  dropped  his  eyes,  vanquished  and  perplexed.  The 
picture  of  the  future  outlined  by  Marguerite  terrified 
him.  To  live  with  her  as  a  nurse  taking  advantage  of  her 
patient's  blindness  would  be  to  offer  him  fresh  insult 
every  day.  .  .  .  Ah,  no !  That  would  be  villainy,  indeed  1 
He  was  now  ashamed  to  recall  the  malignity  with  which, 
a  little  while  before,  he  had  regarded  this  innocent  unfor- 


288    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

tunate.  He  realized  that  he  was  powerless  to  contend 
with  him.  Weak  and  helpless  as  he  was  sitting  there  on 
the  garden  bench,  he  was  stronger  and  more  deserving  of 
respect  than  Julio  Desnoyers  with  all  his  youth  and 
elegance.  The  victim  had  amounted  to  something  in  his 
life ;  he  had  done  what  Julio  had  not  dared  to  do. 

This  sudden  conviction  of  his  inferiority  made  him  cry 
out  like  an  abandoned  child,  "What  will  become  of 
me?"  .  .  . 

Marguerite,  too — contemplating  the  love  which  was 
going  from  her  forever,  her  vanished  hopes,  the  future 
illumined  by  the  satisfaction  of  duty  fulfilled  but  monot- 
onous and  painful — cried  out: 

"And  I.  .  .  .  What  will  become  of  me  ?"  .  .  . 

As  though  he  had  suddenly  found  a  solution  which 
was  reviving  his  courage,  Desnoyers  said : 

"Listen,  Marguerite;  I  can  read  your  soul.  You  love 
this  man,  and  you  do  well.  He  is  superior  to  me,  and 
women  are  always  attracted  by  superiority,  ...  I  am  a 
coward.  Yes,  do  not  protest,  I  am  a  coward  with  all  my 
youth,  with  all  my  strength.  Why  should  you  not  have 
been  impressed  by  the  conduct  of  this  man!  .  .  .  But  I 
will  atone  for  past  wrongs.  This  country  is  yours,  Mar- 
guerite; I  will  fight  for  it.    Do  not  say  no.  .  .  ." 

And  moved  by  his  hasty  heroism,  he  outlined  the  plan 
more  definitely.  He  was  going  to  be  a  soldier.  Soon  she 
would  hear  him  well  spoken  of.  His  idea  was  either  to 
be  stretched  on  the  battlefield  in  his  first  encounter,  or  to 
astound  the  world  by  his  bravery.  In  this  way  the  impos- 
sible situation  would  settle  itself — either  the  oblivion  of 
death  or  glory. 

"No,  no!"  interrupted  Marguerite  in  an  anguished 
tone.  "You,  no!  One  is  enough.  .  .  .  How  horrible! 
You,  too,  wounded,  mutilated  forever,  perhaps  dead !  .  .  . 
No,  you  must  live.    I  want  you  to  live,  even  though  you 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  289 

might  belong  to  another.  .  .  ,  Let  me  know  that  you 
exist,  let  me  see  you  sometimes,  even  though  you  may 
have  forgotten  me,  even  though  you  may  pass  me  with 
indifference,  as  if  }  ou  did  not  know  me." 

In  this  outburst  her  deep  love  for  him  rang  true — her 
heroic  and  inflexible  love  which  would  accept  all  penalties 
for  herself,  if  only  the  beloved  one  might  continue  to  live. 

But  then,  in  order  that  Julio  might  not  feel  any  false 
hopes,  she  added : — 

"Live ;  you  must  not  die;  that  would  be  for  me  another 
torment.  .  .  .  But  live  without  me.  No  matter  how  much 
we  may  talk  about  it,  my  destiny  beside  the  other  one  is 
marked  out  forever." 

"Ah,  how  you  love  him !  .  .  .  How  you  have  deceived 
me!" 

In  a  last  desperate  attempt  at  explanation  she  again 
repeated  what  she  had  said  at  the  beginning  ot  their 
interview.  She  loved  Julio  .  .  .  and  she  loved  her  hus- 
band. They  were  different  kinds  of  love.  She  could  not 
say  which  was  the  stronger,  but  misfortune  was  forcing 
her  lO  choose  between  the  two,  and  she  was  accepting  the 
most  difficult,  the  o"c  demanding  the  greatest  sacrifices. 

"You  are  a  man,  and  you  will  never  be  able  to  under- 
stand me.  ...  A  woman  would  comprehend  me." 

It  seemed  to  Julio,  as  he  looked  around  him,  as  though 
the  afternoon  were  undergoing  some  celestial  phenom- 
enon. The  garden  was  still  illuminated  by  the  sun,  but 
the  green  of  tlie  trees,  the  yellow  of  the  ground,  the  blue 
of  the  sky,  all  appeared  to  him  as  dark  and  shadowy  as 
though  a  rain  of  ashes  were  falling. 

"Then  ...  all  is  over  between  us?" 

His  pleading,  trembling  voice  charged  with  tears  made 
her  turn  her  head  to  hide  her  emotion.  Then  in  the  pain- 
ful silence  the  two  despairs  formed  one  and  the  same 
question,  as  if  interrogating  the  shades  of  the  future: 


290     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"What  will  become  of  me  ?"  murmured  the  man.  And  like 
an  echo  her  lips  repeated,  "What  will  become  of  me?" 

All  had  been  said.  Hopeless  words  came  between  the 
two  like  an  obstacle  momentarily  increasing  in  size,  im- 
pelling them  in  opposite  directions.  Why  prolong  the 
painful  interview  ?  .  .  .  Marguerite  showed  the  ready  and 
energetic  decision  of  a  woman  who  wishes  to  bring  a 
scene  to  a  close.  "Good-bye !"  Her  face  had  assumed  a 
yellowish  cast,  her  pupils  had  become  dull  and  clouded 
like  the  glass  of  a  lantern  when  the  light  dies  out. 
"Good-bye!"    She  must  go  to  her  patient. 

She  went  away  without  looking  at  him,  and  Desnoyers 
instinctively  went  in  the  opposite  direction.  As  he  be- 
came more  self-controlled  and  turned  to  look  at  her 
again,  he  saw  her  moving  on  and  giving  her  arm  to  the 
blind  man,  without  once  turning  her  head. 

He  now  felt  convinced  that  he  should  never  see  her 
again,  and  became  oppressed  by  an  almost  suffocating 
agony.  And  could  two  beings,  who  had  formerly  con- 
sidered the  universe  concentrated  in  their  persons,  thus 
easily  be  separated  forever?  .  .  . 

His  desperation  at  finding  himself  alone  made  him 
accuse  himself  of  stupidity.  Now  his  thoughts  came 
tumbling  over  each  other  in  a  tumultuous  throng,  and 
each  one  of  them  seemed  to  him  sufficient  to  have  con- 
vinced Marguerite.  He  certainly  had  not  known  how 
to  express  himself.  He  would  have  to  talk  with  her 
again  .  .  .  and  he  decided  to  remain  in  Lourdes. 

He  passed  a  night  of  torture  in  the  hotel,  listening  to 
the  ripple  of  the  river  among  its  stones.  Insomnia  had 
him  in  his  fierce  jaws,  gnawing  him  with  interminable 
agony.  He  turned  on  the  light  several  times,  but  was  not 
able  to  read.  His  eyes  looked  with  stupid  fixity  at  the 
patterns  of  the  wall  paper  and  the  pious  pictures  around 
the  room  which  had  evidently  served  as  the  lodging  place 


NEAR  THE  SACRED  GROTTO  291 

of  some  rich  traveller.  He  remained  motionless  and  as 
abstracted  as  an  Oriental  who  thinks  himself  into  an 
absolute  lack  of  thought.  One  idea  only  was  dancing  in 
the  vacuum  in  his  skull — "I  shall  never  see  her  again.  .  .  . 
Can  such  a  thing  be  possible?" 

He  drowsed  for  a  few  seconds,  only  to  be  awakened 
with  the  sensation  that  some  horrible  explosion  was  send- 
ing him  through  the  air.  And  so,  with  sweats  of  anguish, 
he  wakefully  passed  the  hours  until  in  the  gloom  of  his 
room  the  dawn  showed  a  milky  rectangle  of  light,  and 
began  to  be  reflected  on  the  window  curtains. 

The  velvet-like  caress  of  day  finally  closed  his  eyes. 
Upon  awaking  he  found  that  the  morning  was  well  ad- 
vanced, and  he  hurried  to  the  garden  of  the  grotto.  .  .  . 
Oh,  the  hours  of  tremulous  and  unavailing  waiting,  be- 
lieving that  he  recognized  Marguerite  in  every  white-clad 
lady  that  came  along,  guiding  a  wounded  patient ! 

.By  afternoon,  after  a  lunch  whose  dishes  filed  past  him 
untouched,  he  returned  to  the  garden  in  search  of  her. 
Beholding  her  in  the  distance  with  the  blind  man  leaning 
on  her  arm,  a  feeling  of  faintness  came  over  him.  She 
looked  to  him  taller,  thinner,  her  face  sharper,  with  two 
dark  hollows  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  bright  with  fever, 
the  lids  drawn  with  weariness.  He  suspected  that  she, 
too,  had  passed  an  anguished  night  of  tenacious,  self- 
centred  thought,  of  grievous  stupefaction  like  his  own,  in 
the  room  of  her  hotel.  Suddenly  he  felt  all  the  weight 
of  insomnia  and  listlessness,  all  the  depressing  emotion  of 
the  cruel  sensations  experienced  in  the  last  few  hours. 
Oh,  how  miserable  they  both  were !  .  .  . 

She  was  walking  warily,  looking  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  as  though  foreseeing  danger.  Upon  discovering 
him  she  clung  to  her  charge,  casting  upon  her  former 
lover  a  look  of  entreaty,  of  desperation,  imploring  pity. 
.  .  .  Ay,  that  look  I 


292     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

He  felt  ashamed  of  himself;  his  personality  appeared 
to  be  unrolling  itself  before  him,  and  he  surveyed  himself 
with  the  eyes  of  a  judge.  What  was  this  seduced  and 
useless  man,  called  Julio  Desnoyers,  doing  there,  tor- 
menting with  his  presence  a  poor  woman,  trying  to  turn 
her  from  her  righteous  repentance,  insisting  on  his  selfish 
and  petty  desires  when  all  humanity  was  thinking  of 
other  things?  .  .  .  His  cowardice  angered  him.  Like  a 
thief  taking  advantage  of  the  sleep  of  his  victim,  he  was 
stalking  around  this  brave  and  true  man  who  could  not 
see  him,  who  could  not  defend  himself,  in  order  to  rob 
him  of  the  only  affection  that  he  had  in  the  world  which 
had  so  miraculously  returned  to  him !  Very  well.  Gentle- 
man Desnoyers !  .  .  .  Ah,  what  a  scoundrel  he  was  1 

Such  subconscious  insults  made  him  draw  himself 
erect,  in  haughty,  cruel  and  inexorable  defiance  against 
that  other  I  who  so  richly  deserved  the  judge's  scorn. 

He  turned  his  head  away;  he  could  not  meet  Mar- 
guerite's piteous  eyes;  he  feared  their  mute  reproach. 
Neither  did  he  dare  to  look  at  the  blind  man  in  his  shabby 
and  heroic  uniform,  with  his  countenance  aged  by  duty 
and  glory.    He  feared  him  like  remorse. 

So  the  vanquished  lover  turned  his  back  on  the  two 
and  went  away  with  a  firm  step.  Good-bye,  Love! 
Good-bye,  Happiness!  .  .  .  He  marched  quickly  and 
bravely  on;  a  miracle  had  just  taken  place  within  him! 
He  had  found  the  right  road  at  last! 

To  Paris!  ...  A  new  impetus  was  going  to  fill  the 
vacuum  of  his  objectless  existence. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  INVASION 


Don  Marcelo  was  fleeing  to  take  refuge  in  his  castle 
when  he  met  the  mayor  of  Villeblanche.  The  noise  of 
the  firing  had  made  him  hurry  to  the  barricade.  When 
he  learned  of  the  apparition  of  the  group  of  stragglers  he 
threw  up  his  hands  in  despair.  They  were  crazy.  Their 
resistance  was  going  to  be  fatal  for  the  village,  and  he 
ran  on  to  beg  them  to  cease. 

For  some  time  nothing  happened  to  disturb  the  morn- 
ing calm.  Desnoyers  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  his  towers 
and  was  surveying  the  country  with  his  field  glasses.  He 
couldn't  make  out  the  highway  through  the  nearest  group 
of  trees,  but  he  suspected  that  underneath  their  branches 
great  activity  was  going  on — masses  of  men  on  guard, 
troops  preparing  for  the  attack.  The  unexpected  defense 
of  the  fugitives  had  upset  the  advance  of  the  invasion. 
Desnoyers  thought  despairingly  of  that  handful  of  mad 
fellows  and  their  stubborn  chief.  What  was  their  fate 
going  to  be?  .  .  , 

Focussing  his  glasses  on  the  village,  he  saw  the  red 
spots  of  kepis  waving  like  poppies  over  the  green  of  the 
meadows.  They  were  the  retreating  men,  now  convinced 
of  the  uselessness  of  their  resistance.  Perhaps  they  had 
found  a  ford  or  forgotten  boat  by  which  they  might  cross 
the  Mame,  and  so  were  continuing  their  retreat  toward 
the  river.  At  any  minute  now  the  Germans  were  going 
to  enter  Villeblanche. 

Half  an  hour  of  profound  silence  passed  by.    The  vil- 

293 


294     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

lage  lay  silhouetted  against  a  background  of  hills — a  mass 
of  roofs  beneath  the  church  tower  finished  with  its  cross 
and  iron  weather  cock.  Everything  seemed  as  tranquil 
as  in  the  best  days  of  peace.  Suddenly  he  noticed  that 
the  grove  was  vomiting  forth  something  noisy  and  pene- 
trating— a  bubble  of  vapor  accompanied  by  a  deafening 
report.  Something  was  hurtling  through  the  air  with  a 
strident  curve.  Then  a  roof  in  the  village  opened  like  a 
crater,  vomiting  forth  flying  wood,  fragments  of  plaster 
and  broken  furniture.  All  the  interior  of  the  house 
seemed  to  be  escaping  in  a  stream  of  smoke,  dirt  and 
splinters. 

The  invaders  were  bombarding  Villeblanche  before 
attempting  attack,  as  though  fearing  to  encounter  per- 
sistent resistance  in  its  streets.  More  projectiles  fell. 
Some  passed  over  the  houses,  exploding  between  the 
hamlet  and  the  castle.  The  towers  of  the  Desnoyers 
property  were  beginning  to  attract  the  aim  of  the  artil- 
lerymen. The  owner  was  therefore  about  to  abandon  his 
dangerous  observatory  when  he  saw  something  white  like 
a  tablecloth  or  sheet  floating  from  the  church  tower. 
His  neighbors  had  hoisted  this  signal  of  peace  in  order 
to  avoid  bombardment.  A  few  more  missiles  fell  and 
then  there  was  silence. 

When  Don  Marcelo  reached  his  park  he  found  the 
Warden  burying  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  sporting  rifles 
still  remaining  in  his  castle.  Then  he  went  toward  the 
great  iron  gates.  The  enemies  were  going  to  come,  and 
he  had  to  receive  tliem.  While  uneasily  awaiting  their 
arrival  his  compunctions  again  tormented  him.  What  was 
he  doing  there?  Why  had  he  remained?  .  .  .  But  his 
obstinate  temperament  immediately  put  aside  the  prompt- 
ings of  fear.  He  was  there  because  he  had  to  guard  his 
own.  Besides,  it  was  too  late  now  to  think  about  such 
things. 


THE  INVASION  295 

Suddenly  the  morning  stillness  was  broken  by  a  sound 
like  the  deafening  tearing  of  strong  cloth.  "Shots,  Mas- 
ter," said  the  Warden.  "Firing!  It  must  be  in  the 
square." 

A  few  minutes  after  they  saw  running  toward  them  a 
woman  from  the  village,  an  old  soul,  dried  up  and  dark- 
ened by  age,  who  was  panting  from  her  great  exertion, 
and  looking  wildly  around  her.  She  was  fleeing  blindly, 
trying  to  escape  from  danger  and  shut  out  horrible 
visions.  Desnoyers  and  the  Keeper's  family  listened  to 
her  explanations  interrupted  with  hiccoughs  of  terror. 

The  Germans  were  in  Villeblanche.  They  had  entered 
first  in  an  automobile  driven  at  full  speed  from  one  end 
of  the  village  to  the  other.  Its  mitrailleuse  was  firing  at 
random  against  closed  houses  and  open  doors,  knocking 
down  all  the  people  in  sight.  The  old  woman  flung  up 
her  arms  with  a  gesture  of  terror.  .  .  .  Dead  .  .  .  many 
dead  .  .  .  wounded  .  .  .  blood!  Then  other  iron-plated 
vehicles  had  stopped  in  the  square,  and  behind  them 
cavalrj'men,  battalions  of  infantry,  many  battalions  com- 
ing from  everywhere.  The  helmeted  men  seemed  furi- 
ous; they  accused  the  villagers  of  having  fired  at  them. 
In  the  square  they  had  struck  the  mayor  and  villagers 
who  had  come  forward  to  meet  them.  The  priest,  bend- 
ing over  some  of  the  dying,  had  also  been  trodden  under 
foot.  .  .  .  All  prisoners!  The  Germans  were  talking  of 
shooting  them. 

The  old  dame's  words  were  cut  short  by  the  rumble  of 
approaching  automobiles. 

"Open  the  gates,"  commanded  the  owner  to  the 
Warden. 

The  massive  iron  grill  work  swung  open,  and  was 
never  again  closed.    All  property  rights  were  at  an  end. 

An  enormous  automobile,  covered  with  dust  and  filled 
with  men,  stopped  at  the  entrance.    Behind  them  sounded 


296     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  horns  of  other  vehicles  that  were  putting  on  the 
brakes.  Desnoyers  saw  soldiers  leaping  out,  all  wearing 
the  greenish-gray  uniform  with  a  sheath  of  the  same  tone 
covering  the  pointed  casque.  The  one  who  marched  at 
their  head  put  his  revolver  to  the  millionaire's  forehead. 

"Where  are  the  sharpshooters?"  he  asked. 

He  was  pale  with  the  pallor  of  wrath,  vengeance  and 
fear.  His  face  was  trembling  under  the  influence  of  his 
triple  emotion.  Don  Marcelo  explained  slowly,  contem- 
plating at  a  short  distance  from  his  eyes  the  black  circle 
of  the  threatening  tube.  He  had  not  seen  any  sharp- 
shooters. The  only  inhabitants  of  the  castle  were  the 
Warden  with  his  family  and  himself,  the  owner  of  the 
castle. 

The  officer  surveyed  the  edifice  aud  then  examined  Des- 
noyers with  evident  astonishment  as  though  he  thought 
his  appearance  too  unpretentious  for  a  proprietor.  He 
had  taken  him  for  a  simple  employee,  and  his  respect  for 
social  rank  made  him  lower  his  revolver. 

He  did  not,  however,  alter  his  haughty  attitude.  He 
pressed  Don  Marcelo  into  the  service  as  a  guide,  making 
him  search  ahead  of  him  while  forty  soldiers  grouped 
themselves  at  his  back.  They  advanced  in  two  files  to 
the  shelter  of  the  trees  which  bordered  the  central  avenue, 
with  their  guns  ready  to  shoot,  and  looking  uneasily  at 
the  castle  windows  as  though  expecting  to  receive  from 
them  hidden  shots.  Desnoyers  marched  tranquilly 
through  the  centre,  and  the  official,  who  had  been  imitat- 
ing the  precautions  of  his  men,  finally  joined  him  when 
he  was  crossing  the  drawbridge. 

The  armed  men  scattered  through  the  rooms  in  search 
of  the  enemy.  They  ran  their  bayonets  through  beds  and 
divans.  Some,  with  automatic  destructiveness,  slit  the 
draperies  and  the  rich  bed  coverings.  The  owner  pro- 
tested; what  was  the  sense  in  such  useless  destruction? 


THE  INVASION  297 

.  .  .  He  was  suffering  unbearable  torture  at  seeing  the 
enormous  boots  spotting  the  rugs  with  mud,  on  hearing 
the  clash  of  guns  and  knapsacks  against  the  most  fragile, 
choicest  pieces  of  furniture.    Poor  historic  mansion !  .  .  . 

The  officer  looked  amazed  that  he  should  protest  for 
such  trifling  cause,  but  he  gave  orders  in  German  and  his 
men  ceased  their  rude  explorations.  Then,  in  justifica- 
tion of  this  extraordinary  respect,  he  added  in  French : 

"I  believe  that  you  are  going  to  have  the  honor  of 
entertaining  here  the  general  of  our  division." 

The  certainty  that  the  castle  did  not  hold  any  hidden 
enemies  made  him  more  amiable.  He,  nevertheless,  per- 
sisted in  his  wrath  against  the  sharpshooters.  A  group  of 
the  villagers  had  opened  fire  upon  the  Uhlans  when  they 
were  entering  unsuspiciously  after  the  retreat  of  the 
French. 

Desnoyers  felt  it  necessary  to  protest.  They  were 
neither  inhabitants  nor  sharpshooters ;  they  were  French 
soldiers.  He  took  good  care  to  be  silent  about  their  pres- 
ence at  the  barricade,  but  he  insisted  that  he  had  dis- 
tinguished their  uniforms  from  a  tower  of  the  castle. 

The  official  made  a  threatening  face. 

"You,  too?  .  .  .  You,  who  appear  a  reasonable  man, 
can  repeat  such  yams  as  these  ?"  And  in  order  to  close 
the  conversation,  he  said,  arrogantly :  "They  were  wear- 
ing uniforms,  then,  if  you  persist  in  saying  so,  but  they 
were  sharpshooters  just  the  same.  The  French  Govern- 
ment has  distributed  arms  and  uniforms  among  the 
farmers  that  they  may  assassinate  us.  .  .  .  Belgium  did 
the  same  thing.  .  .  .  But  we  know  their  tricks,  and  we 
know  how  to  punish  them,  too!" 

The  village  was  going  to  be  burned.  It  was  necessary 
to  avenge  the  four  German  dead  lying  on  the  outskirts  of 
Villeblanche,  near  the  barricade.  The  mayor,  the  priest, 
the  principal  inhabitants  would  all  be  shot. 


298    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  top  floor  Desnoyers  could 
see  floating  above  the  boughs  of  his  park  dark  clouds 
whose  outlines  were  reddened  by  the  sun.  The  top  of 
the  bell  tower  was  the  only  thing  that  he  could  distinguish 
at  that  distance.  Around  the  iron  weathercock  were 
flying  long  thin  fringes  like  black  cobwebs  lifted  by  the 
breeze.  An  odor  of  burning  wood  came  toward  the 
castle. 

The  German  greeted  this  spectacle  with  a  cruel  smile. 
Then  on  descending  to  the  park,  he  ordered  Desnoyers  to 
follow  him.  His  liberty  and  his  dignity  had  come  to  an 
end.  Henceforth  he  was  going  to  be  an  underling  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  these  men  who  would  dispose  of  him  as 
their  whims  directed.  Ay,  why  had  he  remained?  .  .  . 
He  obeyed,  climbing  into  an  automobile  beside  the  officer, 
who  was  still  carrying  his  revolver  in  his  right  hand.  His 
men  distributed  themselves  through  the  castle  and  out- 
buildings, in  order  to  prevent  the  flight  of  an  imaginary 
enemy.  The  Warden  and  his  family  seemed  to  be  saying 
good-bye  to  him  with  their  eyes.  Perhaps  they  were  tak- 
ing him  to  his  death.  .  .  . 

Beyond  the  castle  woods  a  new  world  was  coming  into 
existence.  The  short  cut  to  Villeblanche  seemed  to  Des- 
noyers a  leap  of  millions  of  leagues,  a  fall  into  a  red 
planet  where  men  and  things  were  covered  with  the  film 
of  smoke  and  the  glare  of  fire.  He  saw  the  village  under 
a  dark  canopy  spotted  with  sparks  and  glowing  embers. 
The  bell  tower  was  burning  like  an  enormous  torch ;  the 
roof  of  the  church  was  breaking  into  flames  with  a  crash- 
ing fury.  The  glare  of  the  holocaust  seemed  to  shrivel 
and  grow  pale  in  the  impassive  light  of  the  sun. 

Running  across  the  fields  with  the  haste  of  desperation 
were  shrieking  women  and  children.  The  animals  had 
escaped  from  the  stables,  and  driven  forth  by  the  flames 
were  racing  wildly  across  the  country.    The  cow  and  the 


THE  INVASION  299 

work  horse  were  dragging  their  halters  broken  by  their 
flight.  Their  flanks  were  smoking  and  smelt  of  burnt 
hair.  The  pigs,  the  sheep  and  the  chickens  were  all  tear- 
ing along  mingled  with  the  cats  and  the  dogs.  All  the 
domestic  animals  were  returning  to  a  brute  existence, 
fleeing  from  civilized  man.  Shots  were  heard  and  hellish 
ha-ha's.  The  soldiers  outside  of  the  village  were  making 
themselves  merry  in  this  hunt  for  fugitives.  Their  guns 
were  aimed  at  beasts  and  were  hitting  people. 

Desnoyers  saw  men,  many  men,  men  everywhere. 
They  were  like  gray  ants,  marching  in  endless  files  to- 
wards the  South,  coming  out  from  the  woods,  filling  the 
roads,  crossing  the  fields.  The  green  of  vegetation  was 
disappearing  under  their  tread ;  the  dust  was  rising  in 
spirals  behind  the  dull  roll  of  the  cannons  and  the  meas- 
ured trot  of  thousands  of  horses.  On  the  roadside  sev- 
eral battalions  had  halted,  with  their  accompaniment  of 
vehicles  and  draw  horses.  They  were  resting  before 
renewing  their  march.  He  knew  this  army.  He  had  seen 
it  in  Berlin  on  parade,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  have  changed 
its  former  appearance.  There  now  remained  very  little 
of  the  heavy  and  imposing  glitter,  of  the  mute  and  vain- 
glorious haughtiness  which  had  made  his  relatives-in-law 
weep  with  admiration.  War,  with  its  realism,  had  wiped 
out  all  that  was  theatrical  about  this  formidable  organiza- 
tion of  death.  The  soldiers  appeared  dirty  and  tired  out. 
The  respiration  of  fat  and  sweaty  bodies,  mixed  with  the 
strong  smell  of  leather,  floated  over  the  regiments.  All 
the  men  had  hungry  faces. 

For  days  and  nights  they  had  been  following  the  hee's 
of  an  enemy  which  was  always  just  eluding  their  grasp. 
In  this  forced  advance  the  provisions  of  the  administra- 
tion would  often  arrive  so  late  at  the  cantonments  that 
they  could  depend  only  on  what  they  happened  to  have  in 
their  knapsacks,    Desnoyers  saw  them  lined  up  near  tlie 


300    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

road  devouring  hunks  of  black  bread  and  mouldy  sau- 
sages. Some  had  scattered  through  the  fields  to  dig  up 
beet  roots  and  other  tubers,  chewing  with  loud  crunchings 
the  hard  pulp  to  which  the  grit  still  adhered.  An  ensign 
was  shaking  the  fruit  trees  using  as  a  catch-all  the  flag 
of  his  regiment.  That  glorious  standard,  adorned  with 
souvenirs  of  1870,  was  serving  as  a  receptacle  for  green 
plums.  Those  who  were  seated  on  the  ground  were  im- 
proving this  rest  by  drawing  their  perspiring,  swollen  feet 
from  high  boots  which  were  sending  out  an  insufferable 
smell. 

The  regiments  of  infantry  which  Desnoyers  had  seen 
in  Berlin  reflecting  the  light  on  metal  and  leather  straps, 
the  magnificent  and  terrifying  Hussars,  the  Cuirassiers  in 
pure  white  uniform  like  the  paladins  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
the  artillerymen  with  breasts  crossed  with  white  bands, 
all  the  military  variations  that  on  parade  had  drav/n  forth 
the  Hartrotts'  sighs  of  admiration — these  were  now  all 
unified  and  mixed  together,  of  uniform  color,  all  in 
greenisk  mustard  like  the  dusty  lizards  that,  slipping 
along,  try  to  be  confounded  with  the  earth. 

The  persistency  of  the  iron  discipline  was  easily  dis- 
cernible. A  word  from  the  chiefs,  the  sound  of  a  whistle, 
and  they  all  grouped  themselves  together,  the  human 
being  disappearing  in  the  throngs  of  automatons ;  but 
danger,  weariness,  and  the  uncertainty  of  triumph  had 
for  the  time  being  brought  officers  and  men  nearer  to- 
gether, obliterating  casce  distinction.  The  officers  were 
coming  part  way  out  of  their  overbearing,  haughty  seclu- 
sion, and  were  condescending  to  talk  with  the  lower 
orders  so  as  to  revive  their  courage.  One  effort  more 
and  they  would  overwhelm  both  French  and  English, 
repeating  the  triumph  of  Sedan,  whose  anniversary  they 
were  going  to  celebrate  in  a  few  days !  They  were  going 
to  enter  Paris;  it  was  only  a  matter  of  a  week.    Paris  1 


THE  INVASION  301 

Great  shops  filled  with  luxurious  things,  famous  res- 
taurants, women,  champagne,  money.  .  .  .  And  the  men, 
flattered  that  their  commanders  were  stooping  to  chat 
with  them,  forgot  fatigue  and  hunger,  reviving  like  the 
throngs  of  the  Crusade  before  the  image  of  Jerusalem. 
*'Nach  Paris!"  The  joyous  shout  circulated  from  the 
head  to  the  tail  of  the  marching  columns.  "To  Paris! 
To  Paris!"  .  .  . 

The  scarcity  of  their  food  supply  was  here  supple- 
mented by  the  products  of  a  country  rich  in  wines. 
When  sacking  houses  they  rarely  found  eatables,  but 
invariably  a  wine  cellar.  The  humble  German,  the  per- 
petual beer  drinker,  who  had  always  looked  upon  wine  as 
a  privilege  of  the  rich,  could  now  open  up  casks  with 
blows  from  his  weapons,  even  bathing  his  feet  in  the 
stream  of  precious  liquid.  Every  battalion  left  as  a 
souvenir  of  its  passing  a  wake  of  empty  bottles ;  a  halt  in 
camp  sowed  the  land  with  glass  cylinders.  The  regi- 
mental trucks,  unable  to  renew  their  stores  of  provisions, 
were  accustomed  to  seize  the  wine  in  all  the  towns.  The 
soldier,  lacking  bread,  would  receive  alcohol.  .  .  . 

This  donation  was  always  accompanied  by  the  good 
counsels  of  the  officers — war  is  war;  no  pity  toward  our 
adversaries  who  do  not  deserve  it.  The  French  were 
shooting  their  prisoners,  and  their  women  were  putting 
out  the  eyes  of  the  wounded.  Every  dwelling  was  a  den 
of  traps.  The  simple-hearted  and  innocent  German  enter- 
ing therein  was  going  to  certain  death.  The  beds  were 
made  over  subterranean  caves,  the  wardrobes  were  make- 
believe  doors,  in  every  corner  was  lurking  an  assassin. 
This  traitorous  nation,  which  was  arranging  its  ground 
like  the  scenario  of  a  melodrama,  would  have  to  be  chas- 
tised. The  municipal  officers,  the  priests,  the  school- 
masters were  directing  and  protecting  the  sharpshooters. 

Desnoyers  was  shocked  at  the  indifference  with  which 


302    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

these  men  were  stalking  around  the  burning  village. 
They  did  not  appear  to  see  the  fire  and  destruction;  it 
was  just  an  ordinary  spectacle  not  worth  looking  at. 
Ever  since  they  had  crossed  the  frontier,  smoldering  and 
blasted  villages,  fired  by  the  advance  guard,  had  marked 
their  halting  places  on  Belgian  and  French  soil. 

When  entering  Villeblanche  the  automobile  had  to  lower 
its  speed.  Burned  walls  were  bulging  out  over  the  street 
and  half-charred  beams  were  obstructing  the  way,  oblig- 
ing the  vehicle  to  zigzag  through  the  smoking  rubbish. 
The  vacant  lots  were  burning  like  fire  pans  between  the 
houses  still  standing,  with  doors  broken,  but  not  yet  in 
flames.  Desnoyers  saw  within  these  rectangular  spaces 
partly  burned  wood,  chairs,  beds,  sewing  machines,  iron 
stoves,  all  the  household  goods  of  the  well-to-do  country- 
man, being  consumed  or  twisted  into  shapeless  masses. 
Sometimes  he  would  spy  an  arm  sticking  out  of  the  ruins, 
beginning  to  burn  like  a  long  wax  candle.  No,  it  could 
not  be  possible  .  .  .  and  then  the  smell  of  cooking  flesh 
began  to  mingle  with  that  of  the  soot,  wood  and  plaster. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  not  able  to  look  any  longer.  He 
thought  for  a  moment  he  must  be  dreaming.  It  was  un- 
believable that  such  horrors  could  take  place  in  less  than 
an  hour.  Human  wickedness  at  its  worst  he  had  sup- 
posed incapable  of  changing  the  aspect  of  a  village  in 
such  a  short  time. 

An  abrupt  stoppage  of  the  motor  made  him  look 
around  involuntarily.  This  time  the  obstruction  was  the 
dead  bodies  in  the  street — two  men  and  a  woman.  They 
had  probably  fallen  under  the  rain  of  bullets  from  the 
machine  gun  which  had  passed  through  the  town  preced- 
ing the  invasion.  Some  soldiers  were  seated  a  Httle 
bej'ond  them,  with  their  backs  to  the  victims,  as  though 
ignoring  their  presence.    The  chauffeur  yelled  to  them  to 


THE  INVASION  303 

clear  the  track ;  with  their  guns  and  feet  they  pushed 
aside  the  bodies  still  warm,  at  every  turn  leaving  a  trail 
of  blood.  The  space  was  hardly  opened  before  the 
vehicle  shot  through  ...  a  thud,  a  leap — ^the  back  wheels 
had  evidently  crushed  some  very  fragile  obstacle. 

Desnoyers  was  still  huddled  in  his  seat,  benumbed  and 
with  closed  eyes.  The  horror  around  him  made  him 
think  of  his  own  fate.  Whither  was  this  lieutenant  tak- 
ing him?  .  .  . 

He  soon  saw  the  town  hall  flaming  in  the  square;  the 
church  was  now  nothing  but  a  stone  shell,  bristling  with 
flames.  The  houses  of  the  prosperous  villagers  had  had 
their  doors  and  windows  chopped  out  by  axe-blows. 
Within  them  soldiers  were  moving  about  methodically. 
They  entered  empty-handed  and  came  out  loaded  w^ith 
furniture  and  clothing.  Others,  in  the  upper  stories,  were 
flinging  out  various  objects,  accompanying  their  trophies 
with  jests  and  guflfaws.  Suddenly  they  had  to  come  out 
flying,  for  fire  was  breaking  out  with  the  violence  and 
rapidity  of  an  explosion.  Following  their  footsteps  was 
a  group  of  men  with  big  boxes  and  metal  cylinders. 
Someone  at  their  head  was  pointing  out  the  buildings 
into  whose  broken  windows  were  to  be  thrown  the 
lozenges  and  liquid  streams  which  would  produce  catas- 
trophe with  lightning  rapidity. 

Out  of  one  of  these  flaming  buildings  two  men,  who 
seemed  but  bundles  of  rags,  were  being  dragged  by  some 
Germans.  Above  the  blue  sleeves  of  their  military  cloaks 
Don  Marcelo  could  distinguish  blanched  faces  and  eyes 
immeasurably  distended  with  suffering.  Their  legs  were 
dragging  on  the  ground,  sticking  out  between  the  tatters 
of  their  red  pantaloons.  One  of  them  still  had  on  his 
kepis.  Blood  was  gushing  from  different  parts  of  their 
bodies  and  behind  them,  like  white  serpents,  were  trailing 
their  loosened  bandages.    They  were  wounded  French- 


304    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

men,  stragglers  who  had  remained  in  the  village  because 
too  weak  to  keep  up  with  the  retreat.  Perhaps  they  had 
joined  the  group  which,  finding  its  escape  cut  off,  had 
attempted  that  insane  resistance. 

Wishing  to  make  that  matter  more  clearly  understood, 
Desnoyers  looked  at  the  official  beside  him,  attempting  to 
speak;  but  the  officer  silenced  him  instantly:  "French 
sharpshooters  in  disguise  who  are  going  to  get  the  pun- 
ishment they  deserve."  The  German  bayonets  were  sunk 
deep  into  their  bodies.  Then  blows  with  the  guns  fell  on 
the  head  of  one  of  them  .  .  .  and  these  blows  were 
repeated  with  dull  thumps  upon  their  skulls,  crackling  as 
they  burst  open. 

Again  the  old  man  wondered  what  his  fate  would  be. 
Where  was  this  lieutenant  taking  him  across  such  visions 
of  horror?  .  .  . 

They  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  where 
the  dragoons  had  built  their  barricade.  The  carts  were 
still  there,  but  at  one  side  of  the  road.  They  climbed  out 
of  the  automobile,  and  he  saw  a  group  of  officers  in  gray, 
with  sheathed  helmets  like  the  others.  The  one  who  had 
brought  him  to  this  place  was  standing  rigidly  erect  with 
one  hand  to  his  visor,  speaking  to  a  military  man  stand  - 
ing  a  few  paces  in  front  of  the  others.  He  looked  at  this 
man,  who  was  scrutinizing  him  with  his  little  hard  blue 
eyes  that  had  carved  his  spare,  furrowed  countenance 
with  lines.  He  must  be  the  general.  His  arrogant  and 
piercing  gaze  was  sweeping  him  from  head  to  foot.  Don 
Marcelo  felt  a  presentiment  that  his  life  was  hanging  on 
this  examination;  should  an  evil  suggestion,  a  cruel 
caprice  flash  across  this  brain,  he  was  surely  lost.  The 
general  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  a  few  words  in 
a  contemptuous  tone,  then  entered  his  automobile  with 
two  of  his  aids,  and  the  group  disbanded. 

The  cruel  uncertaint\-,  ''  e  interminable  moments  be- 


THE  INVASION  305 

fore  the  official  returned  to  his  side,  filled  Desnoyers 
with  dread. 

"His  Excellency  is  very  gracious,"  announced  the  lieu- 
tenant. "He  might  have  shot  you,  but  he  pardons  you 
.  .  .  and  yet  you  people  say  that  we  are  savages  I"  .  .  . 

With  involuntary  contempt,  he  further  explained  that 
he  had  conducted  him  thither  fully  expecting  that  he 
would  be  shot.  The  General  was  planning  to  punish  all 
the  prominent  residents  of  Villeblanche,  and  he  had 
inferred,  on  his  own  initiative,  that  the  owner  of  the 
castle  must  be  one  of  them. 

"Military  duty,  sir.  .  .  .  War  exacts  it." 

After  this  excuse  the  petty  official  renewed  his  eulogies 
of  His  Excellency.  He  was  going  to  make  his  head- 
quarters in  Don  Marcelo's  property,  and  on  that  account 
granted  him  his  life.  He  ought  to  thank  him.  .  .  .  Then 
again  his  face  trembled  with  wrath.  He  pointed  to  some 
bodies  lying  near  the  road.  They  were  the  corpses  of 
Uhlans,  covered  with  some  cloaks  from  which  were  pro- 
truding the  enormous  soles  of  their  boots. 

"Plain  murder!"  he  exclaimed.  "A  crime  for  which 
the  guilty  are  going  to  pay  dearly !" 

His  indignation  made  him  consider  the  death  of  four 
soldiers  as  an  unheard-of  and  monstrous  outrage — as 
though  in  war  only  the  enemy  ought  to  fall,  keeping  safe 
and  sound  the  lives  of  his  compatriots. 

A  band  of  infantry  commanded  by  an  officer  ap- 
proached. As  their  ranks  opened,  Desnoyers  saw  the 
gray  uniforms  roughly  pushing  forward  some  of  the 
inhabitants.  Their  clothes  were  torn  and  some  had  blood 
on  face  and  hands.  He  recognized  them  one  by  one  as 
they  were  lined  up  against  the  mud  wall,  at  twenty  paces 
from  the  firing  squad  of  soldiers — the  mayor,  the  priest, 
the  forest  guard,  and  some  rich  villagers  whose  houses  he 
had  seen  falling  in  flames. 


3o6    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"The)'^  are  going  to  shoot  them  ...  in  order  to  prevent 
any  doubt  about  it,"  the  lieutenant  explained.  "I  wanted 
you  to  see  this.  It  will  serve  as  an  object  lesson.  In  this 
way,  you  will  feel  more  appreciative  of  the  leniency  of 
His  Excellency." 

The  prisoners  were  mute.  Their  voices  had  been  ex- 
hausted in  vain  protest.  All  their  life  was  concentrated 
in  their  eyes,  looking  around  them  in  stupefaction.  .  .  . 
And  was  it  possible  that  they  would  kill  them  in  cold 
blood  without  hearing  their  testimony,  without  admitting 
the  proofs  of  their  innocence ! 

The  certainty  of  approaching  death  soon  gave  almost 
all  of  them  a  noble  serenity.  It  was  useless  to  complain. 
Only  one  rich  countryman,  famous  for  his  avarice,  was 
whimpering  desperately,  saying  over  and  over,  "I  do  not 
wish  to  die.  ...   I  do  not  want  to  die!" 

Trembling  and  with  eyes  overflowing  with  tears,  Des- 
noyers  hid  himself  behind  his  implacable  guide.  He 
knew  them  all,  he  had  battled  with  them  all,  and  repented 
now  of  his  former  wrangling.  The  mayor  had  a  red  stain 
on  his  forehad  from  a  long  skin  wound.  Upon  his  breast 
fluttered  a  tattered  tricolor;  the  municipality  had  placed 
it  there  that  he  might  receive  the  invaders  who  had  torn 
most  of  it  away.  The  priest  was  holding  his  little  round 
body  as  erect  as  possible,  wishing  to  embrace  in  a  look 
of  resignation  the  victims,  the  executioners,  earth  and 
heaven.  He  appeared  larger  than  usual  and  more  impos- 
ing. His  black  girdle,  broken  by  the  roughness  of  the 
soldiers,  left  his  cassock  loose  and  floating.  His  waving, 
silvery  hair  was  dripping  blood,  spotting  with  its  red 
drops  the  white  clerical  collar. 

Upon  seeing  him  cross  the  fatal  field  with  unsteady 
step,  because  of  his  obesity,  a  savage  roar  cut  the  tragic 
silence.  The  unarmed  soldiers,  who  had  hastened  to 
witness  the  execution,  greeted  the  venerable  old  man 


THE  INVASION  307 

with  shouts  of  laughter.  "Death  to  the  priest !"  .  .  .  The 
fanaticism  of  the  religious  wars  vibrated  through  their 
mockery.  Almost  all  of  them  were  devout  Catholics  or 
fervent  Protestants,  but  they  believed  only  in  the  priests 
of  their  own  country.  Outside  of  Germany,  everything 
was  despicable — even  their  own  religion. 

The  mayor  and  the  priest  changed  their  places  in  the 
file,  seeking  one  another.  Each,  with  solemn  courtesy, 
was  offering  the  other  the  central  place  in  the  group. 

"Here,  your  Honor,  is  your  place  as  mayor — at  the 
head  of  all." 

"No,  after  you.  Monsieur  le  cure." 

They  were  disputing  for  the  last  time,  but  in  this 
supreme  moment  each  one  was  wishing  to  yield 
precedence  to  the  other. 

Instinctively  they  had  clasped  hands,  looking  straight 
ahead  at  the  firing  squad,  that  had  lowered  its  guns  in  a 
rigid,  horizontal  line.  Behind  them  sounded  laments — 
"Good-bye,  my  children.  .  .  .  Adieu,  life!  ...  I  do  not 
wish  to  die !  .  .  .  I  do  not  want  to  die !"  .  .  . 

The  two  principal  men  felt  the  necessity  of  saying 
something,  of  closing  the  page  of  their  existence  with  an 
affirmation. 

"Five  la  Republique!"  cried  the  mayor. 

"Vive  la  France!"  said  the  priest. 

Desnoyers  thought  that  both  had  said  the  same  thing. 
Two  uprights  flashed  up  above  their  heads — the  arm  of- 
the  priest  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  the  sabre  of 
the  commander  of  the  shooters,  glistening  at  the  same 
instant.  ...  A  dry,  dull  thunderclap,  followed  by  some 
scattering,  tardy  shots. 

Don  Marcelo's  compassion  for  that  forlorn  cluster  of 
massacred  humanity  was  intensified  on  beholding  the 
grotesque  forms  which  many  assumed  in  the  moment  of 
death.     Some  collapsed  like  half-emptied  sacks;  others 


3o8    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYrSE 

rebounded  from  the  ground  like  balls ;  some  leaped  li':e 
gymnasts,  with  upraised  arms,  falling  on  their  backs,  or 
face  downward,  like  a  swimmer.  In  that  human  heap,, 
he  saw  limbs  writhing  in  the  agony  of  death.  Some  sol- 
diers advanced  like  hunters  bagging  their  prey.  From 
the  palpitating  mass  fluttered  locks  of  white  hair,  and  a 
feeble  hand,  trying  to  repeat  the  sacred  sign.  A  few 
more  shots  and  blows  on  the  livid,  mangled  mass  .  .  . 
and  the  last  tremors  of  life  were  extinguished  forever. 

The  officer  had  lit  a  cigar. 

"Whenever  you  wish,"  he  said  to  Desnoyers  with  iron- 
ical courtesy. 

They  re-entered  the  automobile  in  order  to  return  ta 
the  castle  by  the  way  of  Villeblanche.  The  increasing 
number  of  fires  and  the  dead  bodies  in  the  streets  no 
longer  impressed  the  old  man.  He  had  seen  so  much! 
What  could  now  affect  his  sensibilities?  .  .  .  He  was 
longing  to  get  out  of  the  village  as  soon  as  possible  to 
try  to  find  the  peace  of  the  country.  But  the  country 
had  disappeared  under  the  invasion — soldiers,  horses„ 
cannons  everywhere.  Wherever  they  stopped  to  rest, 
they  were  destroying  all  that  they  came  in  contact  with. 
The  marching  battalions,  noisy  and  automatic  as  a 
machine  were  preceded  by  the  fifes  and  drums,  and  every 
now  and  then,  in  order  to  cheer  their  drooping  spirits, 
were  breaking  into  their  joyous  cry,  "Nach  Paris!" 

The  castle,  too,  had  been  disfigured  by  the  invasion. 
The  number  of  guards  had  greatly  increased  during  the 
owner's  absence.  He  saw  an  entire  regiment  of  infantry 
encamped  in  the  park.  Thousands  of  men  were  moving 
about  under  the  trees,  preparing  the  dinner  in  the  mov- 
able kitchens.  The  flower  borders  of  the  gardens,  the 
exotic  plants,  the  carefully  swept  and  gravelled  avenues. 
were  all  broken  and  spoiled  by  this  avalanche  of  men, 
beasts  and  vehicles. 


THE  INVASION  309 

A  chief  wearing  on  his  sleeve  the  band  of  the  military 
administration  was  giving  orders  as  though  he  were  the 
proprietor.  He  did  not  even  condescend  to  look  at  this 
civilian  walking  beside  the  lieutenant  with  the  downcast 
look  of  a  prisoner.  The  stables  were  vacant.  Desnoyers 
saw  his  last  animals  being  driven  off  with  sticks  by  the 
helmeted  shepherds.  The  costly  progenitors  of  his  herds 
were  all  beheaded  in  the  park  like  mere  slaughter-house 
animals.  In  the  chicken  houses  and  dovecotes,  there  was 
not  a  single  bird  left.  The  stables  were  filled  with  thin 
horses  who  were  gorging  themselves  before  overflowing 
mangers.  The  feed  from  the  barns  was  being  lavishly 
distributed  through  the  avenue,  much  of  it  lost  before  it 
could  be  used.  The  cavalry  horses  of  various  divisions 
were  turned  loose  in  the  meadows,  destroying  with  their 
hoofs  the  canals,  the  edges  of  the  slopes,  the  level  of  the 
ground,  all  the  work  of  many  months.  The  dry  wood 
was  uselessly  burning  in  the  park.  Through  carelessness 
or  mischief,  someone  had  set  the  wood  piles  on  fire.  The 
trees,  with  the  bark  dried  by  the  summer  heat,  were 
crackling  on  being  licked  by  the  flame. 

The  building  was  likewise  occupied  by  a  multitude  of 
men  under  this  same  superintendent.  The  open  windows 
showed  a  continual  shifting  through  the  rooms.  Des- 
noyers heard  great  blows  that  re-echoed  within  his 
breast.  Ay,  his  historic  mansion !  .  .  .  The  General  was 
going  to  establish  himself  in  it,  after  having  examined 
on  the  banks  of  the  Marne,  the  works  of  the  pontoon 
builders,  who  had  been  constructing  several  military 
bridges  for  the  troops.  Don  Marcelo's  outraged  sense  of 
ownership  forced  him  to  speak.  He  feared  that  they 
would  break  the  doors  of  the  locked  rooms — he  would 
like  to  go  for  the  keys  in  order  to  give  them  up  to  those 
in  charge.    The  commissary  would  not  listen  to  him  but 


310    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYF::)!:- 

continued  ignoring  his  existence.  The  lieutenant  replied 
with  cutting  amiability : 

"It  is  not  necessary ;  do  not  trouble  yourself !" 

After  this  considerate  remark,  he  started  to  rejoin  his 
regiment  but  deemed  it  prudent  before  losing  sight  of 
Desnoyers  to  give  him  a  little  advice.  He  must  remain 
quietly  at  the  castle ;  outside,  he  might  be  taken  for  a  spy, 
and  he  already  knew  how  promptly  the  soldiers  of  the 
Emperor  settled  all  such  little  matters. 

He  could  not  remain  in  the  garden  looking  at  his 
dwelling  from  any  distance,  because  the  Germans  who 
were  going  and  coming  were  diverting  themselves  by 
playing  practical  jokes  upon  him.  They  would  march 
toward  him  in  a  straight  line,  as  though  they  did  not  see 
him,  and  he  would  have  to  hurry  out  of  their  way  to 
avoid  being  thrown  down  by  their  mechanical  and  rigid 
advance. 

Finally  he  sought  refuge  in  the  lodge  of  the  Keeper, 
whose  good  wife  stared  with  astonishment  at  seeing  him 
drop  into  a  kitchen  chair  breathless  and  downcast,  sud- 
denly aged  by  losing  the  remarkable  energy  that  had  been 
the  wonder  of  his  advanced  years, 

"Ah,  Master.  .  .  .  Poor  Master !" 

Of  all  the  events  attending  the  invasion,  the  most  un- 
believable for  this  poor  woman  was  seeing  her  employer 
take  refuge  in  her  cottage. 

"What  is  ever  going  to  become  of  us !"  she  groaned. 

Her  husband  was  in  constant  demand  by  the  invaders. 
His  Excellency's  assistants,  installed  in  the  basement 
apartments  of  the  castle,  were  incessantly  calling  him  to 
tell  them  the  whereabouts  of  things  which  they  could  not 
find.  From  every  trip,  he  would  return  humiliated,  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  On  his  forehead  was  the  black  and 
blue  mark  of  a  blow,  and  his  jacket  was  badly  torn. 
These  were  souvenirs  of  a  futile  attempt  at  opposition. 


THE  INVASION  311 

during  his  master's  absence,  to  the  German  plundering  of 
stables  and  castle  rooms. 

The  millionaire  felt  himself  linked  by  misfortune  to 
these  people,  considered  until  then  with  indifference.  He 
was  very  grateful  for  the  loyalty  of  this  sick  and  humble 
man,  and  the  poor  woman's  interest  in  the  castle  as 
though  it  were  her  own,  touched  him  greatly.  The  pres- 
ence of  their  daughter  brought  Chichi  to  his  mind.  He 
had  passed  near  her  without  noting  the  transformation 
in  her,  seeing  her  just  the  same  as  when,  with  her  little 
dog  trot,  she  had  accompanied  the  Master's  daughter  on 
her  rounds  through  the  parks  and  grounds.  Now  she 
was  a  woman,  slender  and  full  grown,  with  the  first 
feminine  graces  showing  subtly  in  her  fourteen-year-old 
figure.  Her  mother  would  not  let  her  leave  the  lodge, 
fearing  the  soldiery  which  was  invading  every  other  spot 
with  its  overflowing  current,  filtering  into  all  open  places, 
breaking  every  obstacle  which  impeded  their  course. 

Desnoyers  broke  his  despairing  silence  to  admit  that  he 
was  feeling  hungry.  He  was  ashamed  of  this  bodily 
want,  but  the  emotions  of  the  day,  the  executions  seen  so 
near,  the  danger  still  threatening,  had  awakened  in  him  a 
nervous  appetite.  The  fact  that  he  was  so  impotent  in 
the  midst  of  his  riches  and  unable  to  avail  himself  of 
anything  on  his  estate  but  aggravated  his  necessity. 

"Poor  Master!"  again  exclaimed  the  faithful  soul. 

And  the  woman  looked  with  astonishment  at  the  mil- 
lionaire devouring  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  triangle  of  cheese, 
the  only  food  that  she  could  find  in  her  humble  dwelling. 
The  certainty  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  find  any  other 
nourishment,  no  matter  how  much  he  might  seek  it,, 
greatly  sharpened  his  cravings.  To  have  acquired  aft 
enormous  fortune  only  to  perish  with  hunger  at  the  end. 
of  his  existence !  .  .  .  The  good  wife,  as  though  guessing' 
his   thoughts,   sighed,   raising  her  eyes  beseechingly  t© 


312     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

heaven.  Since  the  early  morning  hours,  the  world  had 
completely  changed  its  course.    Ay,  this  war !  .  .  . 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  a  part  of  the  night,  the 
proprietor  kept  receiving  news  from  the  Keeper  after  his 
visits  to  the  castle.  The  General  and  numerous  officers 
were  now  occupying  the  rooms.  Not  a  single  door  was 
locked,  all  having  been  opened  with  blows  of  the  axe  or 
g^n.  Many  things  had  completely  disappeared ;  the  man 
did  not  know  exactly  how,  but  they  had  vanished — per- 
haps destroyed,  or  perhaps  carried  off  by  those  who  were 
coming  and  going.  The  chief  with  the  banded  sleeve 
was  going  from  room  to  room  examining  everything, 
dictating  in  German  to  a  soldier  who  was  writing  down 
his  orders.  Meanwhile  the  General  and  his  staff  were 
in  the  dining  room  drinking  heavily,  consulting  the  maps 
spread  out  on  the  floor,  and  ordering  the  Warden  to  go 
down  into  the  vaults  for  the  very  best  wines. 

By  nightfall,  an  onward  movement  was  noticeable  in 
the  human  tide  that  had  been  overflowing  the  fields  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach.  Some  bridges  had  been  con- 
structed across  the  Mame  and  the  invasion  had  renewed 
its  march,  shouting  enthusiastically.  "N.jch  Paris!" 
Those  left  behind  till  the  following  day  were  to  live  in 
the  ruined  houses  or  the  open  air.  Desnoyers  heard 
songs.  Under  the  splendor  of  the  evening  stars,  the 
soldiers  had  grouped  themselves  in  musical  knots,  chant- 
ing a  sweet  and  solemn  chorus  of  religious  gravity. 
Above  the  trees  was  floating  a  red  cloud,  intensified  by 
the  dusk — a  reflection  of  the  still  burning  village.  Afar 
off  were  bonfires  of  farms  and  homesteads,  twinkling  in 
the  night  with  their  blood-colored  lights. 

The  bewildered  proprietor  of  the  castle  finally  fell 
asleep  in  a  bed  in  the  lodge,  made  mercifully  unconscious 
by  the  heavy  and  stupefying  slumber  of  exhaustion,  with- 
out  fright  nor  nightmare.     He   seemed  to  be   falling. 


THE  INVASION  313 

falling  into  a  bottomless  pit,  and  on  awaking  fancied 
that  he  had  slept  but  a  few  minutes.  The  sun  was  turn- 
ing the  window  shades  to  an  orange  hue,  spattered  v/ith 
shadows  of  waving  boughs  and  birds  fluttering  and 
twittering  among  the  leaves.  He  shared  their  joy  in  the 
cool  refreshing  dawn  of  the  summer  day.  It  certainly 
was  a  fine  morning — but  whose  dwelling  was  this?  .  .  . 
He  gazed  dumbfounded  at  his  bed  and  surroundings. 
Suddenly  the  reality  assaulted  his  brain  that  had  been  so 
sweetly  dulled  by  the  first  splendors  of  the  day.  Step  by 
step,  the  host  of  emotions  compressed  into  the  preceding 
day,  came  climbing  up  the  long  stairway  of  his  memory 
to  the  last  black  and  red  landing  of  the  night  before. 
And  he  had  slept  tranquilly  surrounded  by  enemies,  under 
the  surveillance  of  an  arbitrary  power  which  might 
destroy  him  in  one  of  its  caprices !  .  .  . 

When  he  went  into  the  kitchen,  the  Warden  gave  him 
some  news.  The  Germans  were  departing.  The  regiment 
encamped  in  the  park  had  left  at  daybreak,  and  after 
them  others,  and  still  others.  In  the  village  there  was 
still  one  regiment  occupying  the  few  houses  yet  standing 
and  the  ruins  of  the  charred  ones.  The  General  had 
gone  also  with  his  numerous  staff.  There  was  nobody  in 
the  castle  now  but  the  head  of  a  Reserve  brigade  whom 
his  aide  called  "The  Count,"  and  a  few  officials. 

Upon  receiving  this  information,  the  proprietor  ven- 
tured to  leave  the  lodge.  He  saw  his  gardens  destroyed, 
but  still  beautiful.  The  trees  were  still  stately  in  spite  of 
the  damage  done  to  their  trunks.  The  birds  were  flying 
about  excitedly,  rejoicing  to  find  themselves  again  in 
possession  of  the  spaces  so  recently  flooded  by  the  human 
inundation. 

Suddenly  Desnoyers  regretted  having  sallied  forth. 
Five  huge  trucks  were  lined  up  near  the  moat  before  the 
castle  bridge.    Gangs  of  soldiers  were  coming  out  carry- 


SH     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ing  on  their  shoulders  enormous  pieces  of  furniture,  like 
peons  conducting  a  moving.  A  bulky  object  wrapped  in 
damask  curtains — an  excellent  substitute  for  sacking — 
was  being  pushed  by  four  men  toward  one  of  the  drays. 
The  owner  suspected  immediately  what  it  must  be.  His 
bath !  The  famous  tub  of  gold !  .  .  .  Then  with  an  abrupt 
revulsion  of  feeling,  he  felt  no  grief  at  his  loss.  He  now 
detested  the  ostentatious  thing,  attributing  to  it  a  fatal 
influence.  On  account  of  it  he  was  here.  But,  ay!  .  .  . 
the  other  furnishings  piled  up  in  the  drays !  .  .  .  In  that 
moment  he  suffered  the  extreme  agony  of  misery  and 
impotence.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  defend  his 
property,  to  dispute  with  the  head  thief  who  was  sacking 
his  castle,  tranquilly  ignoring  the  very  existence  of  the 
owner.  "Robbers !  thieves !"  and  he  fled  back  to  the 
lodge. 

He  passed  the  remainder  of  the  morning  with  his 
elbow  on  the  table,  his  head  in  his  hands,  the  same  as  the 
day  before,  letting  the  hours  grind  slowly  by,  trying  not 
to  hear  the  rolling  of  the  vehicles  that  were  bearing  away 
these  credentials  of  his  wealth. 

Toward  midday,  the  Keeper  announced  that  an  officer 
who  had  arrived  a  few  hours  before  in  an  automobile 
was  inquiring  for  him. 

Responding  to  this  summons,  Desnoyers  encountered 
outside  the  lodge  a  captain  arrayed  like  the  others  in 
sheathed  and  pointed  helmet,  in  mustard-colored  uni- 
form, red  leather  boots,  sword,  revolver,  field-glasses  and 
geographic  map  hanging  in  a  case  from  his  belt.  He 
appeared  young;  on  his  sleeve  was  the  staff  emblem. 

"Do  you  know  me  ?  .  .  .  I  did  not  wish  to  pass  through 
here  without  seeing  you." 

He  spoke  in  Castilian,  and  Don  Marcelo  felt  greater 
surprise  at  this  than  at  the  many  things  which  he  had 


THE  INVASION  315 

been  experiencing  so  painfully  during  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours. 

"You  really  do  not  know  me?"  queried  the  German, 
always  in  Spanish.  "I  am  Otto.  .  .  .  Captain  Otto  von 
Hartrott." 

The  old  man's  mind  went  painfully  down  the  staircase 
of  memory,  stopping  this  time  at  a  far-distant  landing. 
There  he  saw  the  old  ranch,  and  his  brother-in-law  an- 
nouncing the  birth  of  his  second  son.  "I  shall  give  him 
Bismarck's  name,"  Karl  had  said.  Then,  climbing  back 
past  many  other  platforms,  Desnoyers  saw  himself  in 
Berlin  during  his  visit  to  the  von  Hartrott  home  where 
they  were  speaking  proudly  of  Otto,  almost  as  learned  as 
the  older  brother,  but  devoting  his  talents  entirely  to 
martial  matters.  He  was  then  a  lieutenant  and  studying 
for  admission  to  the  General  Staff.  "Who  knows  but  he 
may  turn  out  to  be  another  Moltke?"  said  the  proud 
father  .  .  .  and  the  charming  Chichi  had  thereupon 
promptly  bestowed  upon  the  warlike  wonder  a  nickname, 
accepted  through  the  family.  From  that  time  Otto  was 
Moltke cito  (the  baby  Moltke)  to  his  Parisian  relatives. 

Desnoyers  was  astounded  by  the  transformation  which 
had  meanwhile  taken  place  in  the  youth.  This  vigorous 
captain  with  the  insolent  air  who  might  shoot  him  at  any 
minute  was  the  same  urchin  whom  he  had  seen  running 
around  the  ranch,  the  beardless  Moltkecito  who  had  been 
the  butt  of  his  daughter's  ridicule.  .  .  . 

The  soldier,  meanwhile,  was  explaining  his  presence 
there.  He  belonged  to  another  division.  There  were 
many  .  .  .  many !  They  were  advancing  rapidly,  forming 
an  extensive  and  solid  wall  from  Verdun  to  Paris.  His 
general  had  sent  him  to  maintain  the  contact  with  the 
next  division,  but  finding  himself  near  the  castle,  he  had 
wished  to  visit  it.  A  family  tie  was  not  a  mere  word. 
He  strll  remembered  the  days  that  he  had  spent  at  \'ille- 


3i6     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

blanche  when  the  Hartrott  family  had  paid  a  long  visit 
to  their  relatives  in  France.  The  officials  now  occupying 
the  edifice  had  detained  him  that  he  might  lunch  with 
them.  One  of  them  had  casually  mentioned  that  the 
owner  of  the  castle  was  somewhere  about  although  no- 
body knew  exactly  where.  This  had  been  a  great  surprise 
to  Captain  von  Hartrott,  who  had  tried  to  find  him, 
regretting  to  see  him  taking  refuge  in  the  Warden's 
quarters. 

"You  must  leave  this  hut ;  you  are  my  uncle,"  he  said 
haughtily.  "Return  to  your  castle  where  you  belong.  My 
comrades  will  be  much  pleased  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance; they  are  very  distinguished  men." 

He  very  much  regretted  whatever  the  old  gentleman 
might  have  suflfered.  .  .  .  He  did  not  know  exactly  in 
what  that  suflFering  had  consisted,  but  surmised  that  the 
first  moments  of  the  invasion  had  been  cruel  ones  for  him. 

"But  what  else  can  you  expect?"  he  repeated  several 
times.    "That  is  war." 

At  the  same  time  he  approved  of  his  having  remained 
on  his  property.  They  had  special  orders  to  seize  the 
goods  of  the  fugitives.  Germany  wished  the  inhabitants 
to  remain  in  their  dwellings  as  though  nothing  extraor- 
dinary had  occurred.  .  .  .  Desnoyers  protested.  .  .  .  "But 
if  the  invaders  were  shooting  the  innocent  ones  and  burn- 
ing their  homes!"  .  .  .  His  nephew  prevented  his  saying 
more.  He  turned  pale,  an  ashy  hue  spreading  over  his 
face ;  his  eyes  snapped  and  his  face  trembled  like  that 
of  the  lieutenant  who  had  taken  possession  of  the  castle. 

"You  refer  to  the  execution  of  the  mayor  and  the 
others.  .  .  .  My  comrades  have  just  been  telling  me  about 
it ;  yet  that  castigation  was  very  mild ;  they  should  have 
completely  destroyed  the  entire  village.  They  should 
have  killed  even  the  women  and  children.  We've  got  to 
put  an  end  to  these  sharpshooters." 


THE  INVASION  317 

His  uncle  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  His  Moltkecito 
was  as  formidable  and  ferocious  as  the  others.  .  ,  .  But 
the  captain  brought  the  conversation  to  an  abrupt  close 
by  repeating  the  monstrous  and  everlasting  excu-se. 

"Very  horrible,  but  what  else  can  you  expect ! .  . .  That 
is  war." 

He  then  inquired  after  his  mother,  rejoicing  to  learn 
that  she  was  in  the  South.  He  had  been  uneasy  at  the 
idea  of  her  remaining  in  Paris  .  .  .  especially  with  all 
those  revolutions  which  had  been  breaking  out  there 
lately!  .  .  .  Desnoyers  looked  doubtful  as  if  he  could  not 
have  heard  correctly.  What  revolutions  were  those  ?  .  .  . 
But  the  officer,  without  further  explanation,  resumed  his 
conversation  about  his  family,  taking  it  for  granted  that 
his  relative  would  be  impatient  to  learn  the  fate  of  his 
German  kin. 

They  were  all  in  magnificent  state.  Their  illustrious 
father  was  president  of  various  patriotic  societies  (since 
his  years  no  longer  permitted  him  to  go  to  war)  and  was 
besides  organizing  future  industrial  enterprises  to  im- 
prove the  conquered  countries.  His  brother,  "the  Sage," 
was  giving  lectures  about  the  nations  that  the  imperial 
victory  was  bound  to  annex,  censuring  severely  those 
whose  ambitions  were  unpretending  or  weak.  The  re- 
maining brothers  were  distinguishing  themselves  in  the 
army,  one  of  them  having  been  presented  with  a  medal 
at  Lorraine.  The  two  sisters,  although  somewhat  de- 
pressed by  the  absence  of  their  fiances,  lieutenants  of 
the  Hussars,  were  employing  their  time  in  visiting  the 
hospitals  and  begging  God  to  chastise  traitorous  England. 

Captain  von  Hartrott  was  slowly  conducting  his  uncle 
toward  the  castle.  The  gray  and  unbending  soldiers  who, 
until  then,  had  been  ignoring  the  existence  of  Don 
Marcelo,  looked  at  him  with  interest,  now  that  he  was  in 
intimate  conversation   with   a   member  of  the   General 


3i8    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Staff.  He  perceived  that  these  men  were  about  to 
humanize  themselves  by  casting  aside  temporarily  their 
inexorable  and  aggressive  automatonism. 

Upon  entering  his  mansion  something  in  his  heart  con- 
tracted with  an  agonizing  shudder.  Everywhere  he  could 
see  dreadful  vacancies,  which  made  him  recall  the  ob- 
jects which  had  formerly  been  there.  Rectangular  spots 
of  stronger  color  announced  the  theft  of  furniture  and 
paintings.  With  what  despatch  and  system  the  gentle- 
man of  the  armlet  had  been  doing  his  work !  .  .  .  To 
the  sadness  that  the  cold  and  orderly  spoliation  caused 
was  added  his  indignation  as  an  economical  man,  gazing 
upon  the  slashed  curtains,  spotted  rugs,  broken  crystal 
and  porcelain — all  the  debris  from  a  ruthless  and  un- 
scrupulous occupation. 

His  nephew,  divining  his  thoughts,  could  only  offer 
the  same  old  excuse — "What  a  mess!  .  .  .  But  that  is 
war!" 

With  Moltkecito,  he  did  not  have  to  subside  into  the 
respectful  civilities  of  fear. 

"That  is  not  war!"  he  thundered  bitterly.  "It  is  an 
expedition  of  bandits.  .  .  .  Your  comrades  are  nothing 
less  than  highwaymen." 

Captain  von  Hartrott  swelled  up  with  a  jerk.  Separa- 
ting himself  from  the  complainant  and  looking  fixedly 
at  him,  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  hissing  with  wrath. 
"Look  here,  uncle !  It  is  a  lucky  thing  for  you  that 
you  have  expressed  yourself  in  Spanish,  and  those  around 
you  could  not  understand  you.  If  you  persist  in  such 
comments  you  will  probably  receive  a  bullet  by  way  of 
an  answer.  The  Emperor's  officials  permit  no  insults." 
And  his  threatening  attitude  demonstrated  the  facility 
with  which  he  could  forget  his  relationship  if  he  should 
receive  orders  to  proceed  against  Don  Marcelo. 

Thus   silenced,   the   vanquished  proprietor  hung  his 


THE  INVASION  319 

head.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  .  .  .  The  Captain 
now  renewed  his  affabihty  as  though  he  had  forgotten 
what  he  had  just  said.  He  wished  to  present  him  to  his 
companions-at-arms.  His  Excellency,  Count  Meinbourg, 
the  Major  General,  upon  learning  that  he  was  a  relative 
of  the  von  Hartrotts,  had  done  him  the  honor  of  in- 
viting him  to  his  table. 

Invited  into  his  own  demesne,  he  finally  reached  the 
dining  room,  filled  with  men  in  mustard  color  and  high 
boots.  Instinctively,  he  made  an  inventory  of  the  room. 
All  in  good  order,  nothing  broken — walls,  draperies  and 
furniture  still  intact ;  but  an  appraising  glance  within  the 
sideboard  again  caused  a  clutch  at  his  heart.  Two  en- 
tire table  services  of  silver,  and  another  of  old  porcelain 
had  disappeared  without  leaving  the  most  insignificant  of 
their  pieces.  He  was  obliged  to  respond  gravely  to  the 
presentations  which  his  nephew  was  making,  and  take 
the  hand  which  the  Count  was  extending  with  aristo- 
cratic languor.  The  adversary  began  considering  him 
with  benevolence,  on  learning  that  he  was  a  millionaire 
from  a  distant  land  where  riches  were  acquired  very 
rapidly. 

Soon  he  was  seated  as  a  stranger  at  his  own  table, 
eating  from  the  same  dishes  that  his  family  were  ac- 
customed to  use,  served  by  men  with  shaved  heads, 
wearing  coarse,  striped  aprons  over  their  uniforms. 
That  which  he  was  eating  was  his,  the  wine  was  from 
his  vaults;  all  that  adorned  the  room  he  had  bought: 
the  trees  whose  boughs  were  waving  outside  the  win- 
dow also  belonged  to  him.  .  .  .  And  yet  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  in  this  place  for  the  first  time,  with  all 
the  discomfort  and  diffidence  of  a  total  stranger.  He 
ate  because  he  was  hungry,  but  the  food  and  wines 
seemed  to  have  come  from  another  planet. 

He  continued  looking  with  consternation  at  those  oc- 


320     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

cupying  the  places  of  his  wife,  children  and  the  La- 
cours.  .  .  .  They  were  speaking  in  German  among 
themselves,  but  those  having  a  limited  knowledge  of 
French  frequently  availed  themselves  of  that  language 
in  order  that  their  guest  might  understand  them.  Those 
who  could  only  mumble  a  few  words,  repeated  them  to 
an  accompaniment  of  amiable  smiles.  All  were  display- 
ing an  amicable  desire  to  propitiate  the  owner  of  the 
castle. 

"You  are  going  to  lunch  with  the  barbarians,"  said 
the  Count,  offering  him  a  seat  at  his  side.  "Aren't  you 
afraid  that  we  may  eat  you  alive?" 

The  Germans  burst  into  roars  of  laughter  at  the  wit  of 
His  Excellency.  They  all  took  great  pains  to  demon- 
strate by  word  and  manner  that  barbarity  was  wrongly 
attributed  to  them  by  their  enemies. 

Don  Marcelo  looked  from  one  to  another.  The  fa- 
tigues of  war,  especially  the  forced  march  of  the  last 
days,  were  very  apparent  in  their  persons.  Some  were 
tall  and  slender  with  an  angular  slimness ;  others  were 
stocky  and  corpulent  with  short  neck  and  head  sunk 
between  the  shoulders.  These  had  lost  much  of  their 
fat  in  a  month's  campaign,  the  wrinkled  and  flabby 
skin  hanging  in  folds  in  various  parts  of  their  bodies. 
All  had  shaved  heads,  the  same  as  the  soldiers.  Around 
the  table  shone  two  rows  of  cranial  spheres,  reddish  or 
dark.  Their  ears  stood  out  grotesquely,  and  their  jaw 
bones  were  in  strong  relief  owing  to  their  thinness. 
Some  had  preserved  the  upright  moustache  in  the  style 
of  the  Emperor;  the  most  of  them  were  shaved  or 
had  a  stubby  tuft  like  a  brush. 

A  golden  bracelet  glistened  on  the  wrist  of  the  Count, 
stretched  cm  the  table.  He  was  the  oldest  of  them  all 
and  the  only  one  that  kept  his  hair,  of  a  frosty  red, 
carefully  combed  and  glistening  with  pomade.     Although 


THE  INVASION  321 

about  fifty  years  old,  he  still  maintained  a  youthful 
vigor  cultivated  by  exercise.  Wrinkled,  bony  and  strong, 
he  tried  to  dissimulate  his  uncouthness  as  a  man  of 
battle  under  a  suave  and  indolent  laziness.  The  officers 
treated  him  with  the  greatest  respect.  Hartrott  told 
his  uncle  that  the  Count  was  a  great  artist,  musician  and 
poet.  The  Emperor  was  his  friend ;  they  had  known 
each  other  from  boyhood.  Before  the  war,  certain  scan- 
dals concerning  his  private  life  had  exiled  him  from 
Court — mere  lampoons  of  the  socialists  and  scandal- 
mongers. The  Kaiser  had  always  kept  a  secret  affec- 
tion for  his  former  chum.  Everybody  remembered  his 
dance,  "The  Caprices  of  Scheherazade"  represented  with 
the  greatest  luxury  in  Berlin  through  the  endorsement  of 
his  powerful  friend,  William  II.  The  Count  had  lived 
many  years  in  the  Orient.  In  fact,  he  was  a  great 
gentleman  and  an  artist  of  exquisite  sensibility  as  well  as 
a  soldier. 

Since  Desnoyers  was  now  his  guest,  the  Count  could 
not  permit  him  to  remain  silent,  so  he  made  an  opportu- 
nity of  bringing  him  into  the  conversation. 

"Did  you  see  any  of  the  insurrections?  .  .  .  Did  the 
troops  have  to  kill  many  people  ?  How  about  the  assas- 
sination of  Poincare?  .  .  . 

He  asked  these  questions  in  quick  succession  and  Don 
Marcelo,  bewildered  by  their  absurdity,  did  not  know 
how  to  reply.  He  believed  that  he  must  have  fallen  in 
with  a  feast  of  fools.  Then  he  suspected  that  they  were 
making  fun  of  him.  Uprisings?  Assassinations  of  the 
President?  .  .  .  Some  gazed  at  him  with  pity  because 
of  his  ignorance,  others  with  suspicion,  believing  that 
he  was  merely  pretending  not  to  know  of  these  events 
which  had  happened  so  near  him. 

His  nephew  insisted  "The  daily  papers  in  Germany 
have  been  full  of  accounts  of  these  matters.     Fifteen 


322     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

days  ago,  the  people  of  Paris  revolted  against  the  Gov- 
ernment, bombarding  the  Palais  de  I'Elysee,  and  assassi- 
nating the  President.  The  army  had  to  resort  to  the 
machine  guns  before  order  could  be  restored,  .  .  . 
Everybody  knows  that." 

But  Desnoyers  insisted  that  he  did  not  know  it,  that 
nobody  had  seen  such  things.  And  as  his  words  were 
received  in  an  atmosphere  of  malicious  doubt,  he  pre- 
ferred to  be  silent.  His  Excellency,  superior  spirit,  in- 
capable of  being  associated  with  the  popular  credulity, 
here  intervened  to  set  matters  straight.  The  report  of 
the  assassination  was,  perhaps,  not  certain ;  the  German 
periodicals  might  have  unconsciously  exaggerated  it. 
Just  a  few  hours  ago,  the  General  of  the  Staff  had  told 
him  of  the  flight  of  the  French  Government  to  Bordeaux, 
and  the  statement  about  the  revolution  in  Paris  and  the 
firing  of  the  French  troops  was  indisputable.  "The 
gentlemen  has  seen  it  all  without  doubt,  but  does  not 
wish  to  admit  it."  Desnoyers  felt  obliged  to  contradict 
this  lordling,  but  his  negative  was  not  even  listened  to. 

Paris!  This  name  made  all  eyes  glisten  and  every- 
body talkative.  As  soon  as  possible  they  wished  to  reach 
the  Eiffel  Tower,  to  enter  victorious  into  the  city,  to 
receive  their  recompense  for  the  privations  and  fatigues 
of  a  month's  campaign.  They  were  devotees  of  military 
glory,  they  considered  war  necessary  to  existence,  and 
yet  they  were  bewailing  the  hardship  that  it  was  imposing 
upon  them.  The  Count  exhaled  the  plaint  of  the  crafts- 
master. 

"Oh,  the  havoc  that  this  war  has  brought  in  my  plans !" 
he  sighed.  "This  winter  they  were  going  to  bring  out 
my  dance  in  Paris!" 

They  all  protested  at  his  sadness;  his  work  would 
surely  be  presented  after  the  triumph,  and  the  French 
would  have  to  recognize  it. 


THE  INVASION  323 

"It  will  not  be  the  same  thing,"  complained  the  Count. 
*'I  confess  that  I  adore  Paris.  .  .  .  What  a  pity  that 
these  people  have  never  wished  to  be  on  familiar  terms 
with  us!"  .  .  .  And  he  relapsed  into  the  silence  of  the 
unappreciated  man. 

Desnoyers  suddenly  recognized  in  one  of  the  officers 
who  was  talking,  with  eyes  bulging  with  covetousness, 
of  the  riches  of  Paris,  the  Chief  Thief  with  the  band  on 
his  arm.  He  it  was  who  so  methodically  had  sacked 
the  castle.  As  though  divining  the  old  Frenchman's 
thought,  the  commissary  began  excusing  himself. 

"It  is  war,  monsieur.  .  .  ." 

The  same  as  the  others !  .  .  .  War  had  to  be  paid  with 
the  treasures  of  the  conquered.  That  was  the  new 
German  system;  the  healthy  return  to  the  wars  of 
ancient  days ;  tributes  imposed  on  the  cities,  and  each 
house  sacked  separately.  In  this  way,  the  enemy's  re- 
sistance would  be  more  effectually  overcome  and  the  war 
soon  brought  to  a  close.  He  ought  not  to  be  down- 
cast over  the  appropriations,  for  his  furnishings  and 
ornaments  would  all  be  sold  in  Germany.  After  the 
French  defeat,  he  could  place  a  remonstrance  claim  with 
his  government,  petitioning  it  to  indemnify  his  loss; 
his  relatives  in  Berlin  would  support  his  demand. 

Desnoyers  listened  in  consternation  to  his  counsels. 
What  kind  of  mentality  had  these  men,  anyway?  Were 
they  insane,  or  were  they  trying  to  have  some  fun  at 
his  expense?  .  .  . 

When  the  lunch  was  at  last  ended,  the  officers  arose 
and  adjusted  their  swords  for  service.  Captain  von 
Hartrott  rose,  too;  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  return 
to  his  general;  he  had  already  dedicated  too  much  time 
to  family  expansion.  His  uncle  accompanied  him  to  the 
automobile  where  Moltkecito  once  more  justified  the  ruin 
and  plunder  of  the  castle. 


324    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"It  is  war.  .  .  .  We  have  to  be  very  ruthless  that  it 
may  not  last  long.  True  kindness  consists  in  being  cruel, 
because  then  the  terror-stricken  enemy  gives  in  sooner, 
and  so  the  w^orld  suffers  less." 

Don  Marcelo  shrugged  his  shoulders  before  this  soph- 
istry. In  the  doorway,  the  captain  gave  some  orders  to 
a  soldier  who  soon  returned  with  a  bit  of  chalk  which 
had  been  used  to  number  the  lodging  places.  Von  Hart- 
rott  wished  to  protect  his  uncle  and  began  tracing  on  the 
wall  near  the  door: — "Bitte,  nicht  pliindern.  Es  sind 
freundliche  Leute." 

In  response  to  the  old  man's  repeated  questions,  he 
then  translated  the  inscription.  "It  means,  'Please  do 
not  sack  this  house.  Its  occupants  are  kind  people  .  .  . 
friendly  people.'  " 

Ah,  no !  .  .  .  Desnoyers  repelled  this  protection  vehe- 
mently. He  did  not  wish  to  be  kind.  He  was  silent 
because  he  could  not  be  anything  else.  .  .  .  But  a  friend 
of  the  invaders  of  his  country!  .  .  .  No,  NO,  NO! 

His  nephew  rubbed  out  part  of  the  lettering,  leaving 
the  first  words,  "Bitte,  nicht  pliindern."  Then  he  re- 
peated the  scrawled  request  at  the  entrance  of  the  park. 
He  thought  this  notice  advisable  because  His  Excellency 
might  go  away  and  other  officials  might  be  installed  in 
the  castle.  Von  Hartrott  had  seen  much  and  his  smile 
seemed  to  imply  that  nothing  could  surprise  him,  no  mat- 
ter how  outrageous  it  might  be.  But  his  relative  con- 
tinued scorning  his  protection,  and  laughing  bitterly  at 
the  impromptu  signboard.  What  more  could  they  carry 
off?  .  .  .  Had  they  not  already  stolen  the  best? 

"Good-bye,  uncle!     Soon  we  shall  meet  in  Paris." 

And  the  captain  climbed  into  his  automobile,  ex- 
tending a  soft,  cold  hand  that  seemed  to  repel  the  old 
man  with  its  flabbiness. 

Upon  returning  to  his  castle,  he  saw  a  table  and  some 


THE  INVASION  325 

chairs  in  the  shadow  of  a  group  of  trees.  His  Excel- 
lency was  taking  his  coffee  in  the  open  air,  and  obliged 
him  to  take  a  seat  beside  him.  Only  three  officers  were 
keeping  him  company.  .  .  ,  There  was  here  a  grand 
consumption  of  liquors  from  his  wine  cellars.  They 
were  talking  together  in  German,  and  for  an  hour  Don 
Marcelo  remained  there,  anxious  to  go  but  never  find- 
ing the  opportune  moment  to  leave  his  seat  and  disap- 
pear. 

He  employed  his  time  in  imagining  the  great  stir 
among  the  troops  hidden  by  the  trees.  Another  divi- 
sion of  the  army  was  passing  by  with  the  incessant  deaf- 
ening roar  of  the  sea.  An  inexplicable  phenomenon  kept 
the  luminous  calm  of  the  afternoon  in  a  continuous  state 
of  vibration.  A  constant  thundering  sounded  afar  off  as 
though  an  invisible  storm  were  always  approaching  from 
beyond  the  blue  horizon  line. 

The  Count,  noticing  his  evident  interest  in  the  noise, 
interrupted  his  German  chat  to  explain. 

"It  is  the  cannon.  A  battle  is  going  on.  Soon  we 
shall  join  in  the  dance." 

The  possibility  of  having  to  give  up  his  quarters  here, 
the  most  comfortable  that  he  had  found  in  all  the  cam- 
paign, put  His  Excellency  in  a  bad  humor. 

"War,"  he  sighed,  "a  glorious  life,  but  dirty  and  dead- 
ening! In  an  entire  month — to-day  is  the  first  that  I 
have  lived  as  a  gentleman." 

And  as  though  attracted  by  the  luxuries  that  he  might 
shortly  have  to  abandon,  he  rose  and  went  toward  the 
castle.  Two  of  the  Germans  betook  themselves  toward 
the  village,  and  Desnoyers  remained  with  the  other  offi- 
cer who  was  delightfully  sampling  his  liquors.  He  was 
the  chief  of  the  battalion  encamped  in  the  village. 

"This  is  a  sad  war,  Monsieur!"  he  said  in  French. 

Of  all  the  inimical  group,  this  man  was  the  only  one 


326    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

for  whom  Don  Marcelo  felt  a  vague  attraction.  "Al- 
though a  German,  he  appears  a  good  sort,"  meditated 
the  old  man,  eyeing  him  carefully.  In  times  of  peace, 
he  must  have  been  stout,  but  now  he  showed  the  loose  and 
flaccid  exterior  of  one  who  has  just  lost  much  in  weight. 
Desnoyers  surmised  that  the  man  had  formerly  lived 
in  tranquil  and  vulgar  sensuousness,  in  a  middle-class 
happiness  suddenly  cut  short  by  war. 

"What  a  life,  Monsieur!"  the  officer  rambled  on. 
"May  God  punish  well  those  who  have  provoked  this 
catastrophe !" 

The  Frenchman  was  almost  affected.  This  man  rep- 
resented the  Germany  that  he  had  many  times  imagined, 
a  sweet  and  tranquil  Germany  composed  of  burghers, 
a  little  heavy  and  slow  perhaps,  but  atoning  for  their 
natural  uncouthness  by  an  innocent  and  poetic  senti- 
mentalism.  This  Blumhardt  whom  his  companions 
called  Bataillon-Kommandeur,  was  undoubtedly  the  good 
father  of  a  large  family.  He  fancied  him  walking  with 
his  wife  and  children  under  the  lindens  of  a  provincial 
square,  all  listening  with  religious  unction  to  the  melodies 
played  by  a  military  band.  Then  he  saw  him  in  the  beer 
gardens  with  his  friends,  discussing  metaphysical  prob- 
lems between  business  conversations.  He  was  a  man 
from  old  Germany,  a  character  from  a  romance  by 
Goethe,  Perhaps  the  glory  of  the  Empire  had  modified 
his  existence,  and  instead  of  going  to  the  beer  gardens, 
he  was  now  accustomed  to  frequent  the  officers'  casino, 
while  his  family  maintained  a  separate  existence — sepa- 
rated from  the  civilians  by  the  superciliousness  of  mili- 
tary caste ;  but  at  heart,  he  was  always  the  good  German, 
ready  to  weep  copiously  before  an  affecting  family  scene 
or  a  fragment  of  good  music. 

Commandant  Blumhardt,  meanwhile,  was  thinking  of 
his  family  living  in  Cassel. 


THE  INVASION  327 

"There  are  eight  children.  Monsieur,"  he  said  with  a 
visible  effort  to  control  emotion.  "The  two  eldest  are 
preparing  to  become  officers.  The  youngest  is  starting 
school  this  year,  ,  .  .  He  is  just  so  high." 

And  with  his  right  hand  he  measured  off  the  child's 
diminutive  stature.  He  trembled  with  laughter  and 
grief  at  recalling  the  little  chap.  Then  he  broke  forth 
into  eulogies  about  his  wife — excellent  manager  of  the 
home,  a  mother  who  was  always  modestly  sacrificing 
herself  for  her  children  and  husband.  Ay,  the  sweet 
Augusta!  .  .  .  After  twenty  years  of  married  life,  he 
adored  her  as  on  the  day  he  first  saw  her.  In  a  pocket 
of  his  uniform,  he  was  keeping  all  the  letters  that  she 
had  written  him  since  the  beginning  of  the  campaign. 

"Look  at  her,  Monsieur.  .  .  .    There  are  my  children.'* 

From  his  breast  pocket,  he  had  drawn  forth  a  silver 
medallion,  adorned  with  the  art  of  Munich,  and  touching 
a  spring,  he  displayed  the  pictures  of  all  the  family — 
the  Frau  Kommandeur,  of  an  austere  and  frigid  beauty, 
imitating  the  air  and  coiffure  of  the  Empress ;  the  Frau- 
leine  Kommandeur,  clad  in  white,  with  uplifted  eyes  as 
though  they  were  singing  a  musical  romance ;  and  at  the 
end,  the  children  in  the  uniforms  of  the  army  schools 
or  private  institutions.  And  to  think  that  he  might  lose 
these  beloved  beings  if  a  bit  of  iron  should  hit  him! 
.  .  .  And  he  had  to  live  far  from  them  now  that  it 
was  such  fine  weather  for  long  walks  in  the  coun- 
try! ..  . 

"Sad  war!"  he  again  said.  "May  God  punish  the 
English !" 

With  a  solicitude  that  Don  Marcelo  greatly  appre- 
ciated, he  in  turn  inquired  about  the  Frenchman's  family. 
He  pitied  him  for  having  so  few  children,  and  smiled 
a  little  over  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  old  gentleman 
spoke  of  his  daughter,   saluting  Fraulein   Chichi   as   a 


328     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

witty  sprite,  and  expressing  great  sympathy  on  learning 
that  the  only  son  was  causing  his  parents  great  sorrow 
by  his  conduct. 

Tender-hearted  Commandant!  .  .  .  He  was  the  first 
rational  and  human  being  that  he  had  met  in  this  hell 
of  an  invasion,  "There  are  good  people  everywhere," 
he  told  himself.  He  hoped  that  this  new  acquaintance 
would  not  be  moved  from  the  castle ;  for  if  the  Germans 
had  to  stay  there,  it  would  better  be  this  man  than  the 
others. 

An  orderly  came  to  summon  Don  Marcelo  to  the  pres- 
ence of  His  Excellency.  After  passing  through  the 
salons  with  closed  eyes  so  as  to  avoid  useless  distress 
and  wrath,  he  found  the  Count  in  his  own  bedroom. 
The  doors  had  been  forced  open,  the  floors  stripped 
of  carpet  and  the  window  frames  of  curtains.  Only  the 
pieces  of  furniture  broken  in  the  first  moments  now  oc- 
cupied their  former  places.  The  sleeping  rooms  had 
been  stripped  more  methodically,  everything  having  been 
taken  that  was  not  required  for  immediate  use.  Be- 
cause the  General  with  his  suite  had  been  lodging  there 
the  night  before,  this  apartment  had  escaped  the  arbi- 
trary destruction. 

The  Count  received  him  with  the  civility  of  a  grandee 
who  wishes  to  be  attentive  to  his  guests.  He  could  not 
consent  that  Herr  Desnoyers — a  relative  of  a  von  Hart- 
rott — whom  he  vaguely  remembered  having  seen  at 
Court,  should  be  staying  in  the  Keeper's  lodge.  He  must 
return  to  his  own  room,  occupying  that  bed,  solemn  as  a 
catafalque  with  columns  and  plumes,  which  had  had  the 
honor,  a  few  hours  before,  of  serving  as  the  resting-place 
of  an  illustrious  General  of  the  Empire. 

"I  myself  prefer  to  sleep  here,"  he  added  condescend- 
ingly. "This  other  habitation  accords  better  with  my 
tastes." 


THE  INVASION  329 

While  saying  this,  he  was  entering  Dona  Luisa's 
rooms,  admiring  its  Louis  Quinze  furniture  of  genuine 
value,  with  its  dull  golds  and  tapestries  mellowed  by 
time.  It  was  one  of  the  most  successful  purchases  that 
Don  Marcelo  had  made.  The  Count  smiled  with  an 
artist's  scorn  as  he  recalled  the  man  who  had  superin- 
tended the  official  sacking. 

"What  an  ass !  .  .  .  To  think  that  he  left  this  be- 
hind, supposing  that  it  was  old  and  ugly!" 

Then  he  looked  the  owner  of  the  castle  squarely  in 
the  face. 

"Monsieur  Desnoyers,  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am  com- 
mitting any  indiscretion,  and  even  imagine  that  I  am 
interpreting  your  desires  when  I  inform  you  that  I  in- 
tend taking  this  set  of  furniture  with  me.  It  will  serve 
as  a  souvenir  of  our  acquaintance,  a  testimony  to  the 
friendship  springing  up  between  us.  ...  If  it  remains 
here,  it  will  run  the  risk  of  being  destroyed.  Warriors, 
of  course,  are  not  obliged  to  be  artists.  I  will  guard 
these  excellent  treasures  in  Germany  where  you  may  see 
them  whenever  you  wish.  We  are  all  going  to  be  one 
nation,  you  know.  .  .  .  My  friend,  the  Emperor,  is  soon 
to  be  proclaimed  sovereign  of  the  French." 

Desnoyers  remained  silent.  How  could  he  reply  to 
that  look  of  cruel  irony,  to  the  grimace  with  which  the 
noble  lord  was  underscoring  his  words?  .  .  . 

"When  the  war  is  ended,  I  will  send  you  a  gift  from 
Berlin,"  he  added  in  a  patronizing  tone. 

The  old  collector  could  say  nothing  to  that  either.  He 
was  looking  at  the  vacant  spots  which  many  small  pic- 
tures had  left  on  the  walls,  paintings  by  famous  masters 
of  the  XVIII  century.  The  banded  brigand  must  also 
have  passed  these  by  as  too  insignificant  to  carry  off, 
but  the  smirk  illuminating  the  Count's  face  revealed 
their  ultimate  destination. 


330    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

He  had  carefully  scrutinized  the  entire  apartment — 
the  adjoining  bedroom,  Chichi's  the  bathroom,  even  the 
feminine  robe-room  of  the  family,  which  still  con- 
tained some  of  the  daughter's  gowns.  The  warrior 
fondled  with  delight  the  fine  silky  folds  of  the  materials, 
gloating  over  their  cool  softness. 

This  contact  made  him  think  of  Paris,  of  the  fashions, 
of  the  establishments  of  the  great  modistes.  The  rue 
de  la  Paix  was  the  spot  which  he  most  admired  in  his 
visits  to  the  enemy's  city. 

Don  Marcelo  noticed  the  strong  mixture  of  perfumes 
which  came  from  his  hair,  his  moustache,  his  entire 
body.  Various  little  jars  from  the  dressing  table  were 
on  the  mantel, 

"What  a  filthy  thing  war  is!"  exclaimed  the  German. 
"This  morning  I  was  at  last  able  to  take  a  bath  after  a 
week's  abstinence ;  at  noon  I  shall  take  another.  By  the 
way,  my  dear  sir,  these  perfumes  are  good,  but  they  are 
not  elegant.  When  I  have  the  pleasure  of  being  pre- 
sented to  the  ladies,  I  shall  give  them  the  addresses  of 
my  source  of  supply.  ...  I  use  in  my  home  essences 
from  Turkey.  I  have  many  friends  there.  ...  At 
the  close  of  the  war,  I  will  send  a  consignment  to  the 
family." 

While  speaking  the  Count's  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon 
some  photographs  upon  the  table.  Examining  the  por- 
trait of  Madame  Desnoyers,  he  guessed  that  she  must  be 
Dona  Luisa,  He  smiled  before  the  bewitchingly  mis- 
chievous face  of  Mademoiselle  Chichi.  Very  enchanting ; 
he  specially  admired  her  militant,  boyish  expression ;  but 
he  scrutinized  the  photograph  of  Julio  with  special 
interest. 

"Splendid  type  of  youth,"  he  murmured.  "An  intei- 
esting  head,  and  artistic,  too.  He  would  create  a  great 
sensation  in  a  fancy-dress  ball.    What  a  Persian  prince 


THE  INVASION  331 

he  would  make!  ...  A  white  aigrette  on  his  head, 
fastened  with  a  great  jewel,  the  breast  bared,  a  black 
tunic  with  golden  birds.  .  .  ." 

And  he  continued  seeing  in  his  mind's  eye  the  heir  of 
the  Desnoyers  arrayed  in  all  the  gorgeous  raiment  of 
an  Oriental  monarch.  The  proud  father,  because  of 
the  interest  which  his  son  was  inspiring,  began  to  feel 
a  glimmer  of  sympathy  with  the  man.  A  pity  that  he 
should  select  so  unerringly  and  appropriate  the  choicest 
things  in  the  castle !  .  .  . 

Near  the  head  of  the  bed,  Don  Marcelo  saw  lying 
upon  a  book  of  devotions  forgotten  by  his  wife,  a  medal- 
lion containing  another  photograph.  It  did  not  belong 
to  his  family,  and  the  Count,  following  the  direction  of 
his  eyes,  wished  to  show  it  to  him.  The  hands  of  this 
son  of  Mars  trembled.  .  .  .  His  disdainful  haughtiness 
had  suddenly  disappeared.  An  official  of  the  Hussars  of 
Death  was  smiling  from  the  case ;  his  sharp  profile  with 
a  beak  curved  like  a  bird  of  prey,  was  surmounted  by 
a  cap  adorned  with  skull  and  cross-bones. 

"My  best  friend,"  said  the  Count  in  tremulous  tones. 
"The  being  that  I  love  most  in  all  the  world.  .  .  .  And 
to  think  that  at  this  moment  he  may  be  fighting,  and  they 
may  kill  him!  ...  To  think  that  I,  too,  may  die!" 

Desnoyers  believed  that  he  must  be  getting  a  glimpse 
into  a  romance  of  the  nobleman's  past.  That  Hussar 
was  undoubtedly  his  natural  son.  His  simplicity  of  mind 
could  not  conceive  of  anything  else.  Only  a  father's 
tenderness  could  so  express  itself  .  .  .  and  he  was  almost 
touched  by  this  tenderness. 

Here  the  interview  came  to  an  end,  the  warrior  turn- 
ing his  back  as  he  left  the  room  in  order  to  hide  his 
emotion.  A  few  minutes  after  was  heard  on  the  floor 
below  the  sound  of  a  grand  piano  which  the  Commissary 
had  not  been  able  to  carry  oflF,  owing  to  the  general's 


333    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

interposition.  His  voice  was  soon  heard  above  the 
chords  that  he  was  playing.  It  was  rather  a  lifeless 
baritone,  but  he  managed  to  impart  an  impassioned 
tremolo  to  his  romance.  The  listening  old  man  was  now 
really  affected ;  he  did  not  understand  the  words,  but  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes.  He  thought  of  his  family,  of 
the  sorrows  and  dangers  about  them  and  of  the  diffi- 
culties surrounding  his  return  to  them.  .  .  As  though 
under  the  spell  of  the  melody,  little  by  little,  he  descended 
the  stairs.  What  an  artist's  soul  that  haughty  scoffer 
had !  .  .  .  At  first  sight,  the  Germans  with  their  rough 
exterior  and  their  discipline  which  made  them  commit 
the  greatest  atrocities,  gave  one  a  wrong  impression. 
One  had  to  live  intimately  with  them  to  appreciate  their 
true  worth. 

By  the  time  the  music  had  ceased,  he  had  reached  the 
castle  bridge.  A  sub-officer  was  watching  the  graceful 
movements  of  the  swans  gliding  double  over  the  waters 
of  the  moat.  He  was  a  young  Doctor  of  Laws  who 
just  now  was  serving  as  secretary  to  His  Excellency — 
a  university  man  mobilized  by  the  war. 

On  speaking  with  Don  Marcelo,  he  immediately  re- 
vealed his  academic  training.  The  order  for  departure 
had  surprised  the  professor  in  a  private  institute ;  he 
was  just  about  to  be  married  and  all  his  plans  had  been 
upset. 

"What  a  calamity,  sir!  .  .  .  What  an  overturning  for 
the  world!  .  .  .  Yet  many  of  us  have  foreseen  that  this 
catastrophe  simply  had  to  come.  We  have  felt  strongly 
that  it  might  break  out  any  day.  Capital,  accursed 
Capital  is  to  blame." 

The  speaker  was  a  Socialist.  He  did  not  hesitate 
to  admit  his  co-operation  in  certain  acts  of  his  party 
that  had  brought  persecutions  and  set-backs  to  his  career. 
But  the  Social-Democracy  was  now  being  accepted  by 


THE  INVASION  333 

the  Emperor  and  flattered  by  the  most  reactionary 
Junkers.  All  were  now  one.  The  deputies  of  his  party 
were  forming  in  the  Reichstag  the  group  most  obedient 
to  the  government.  .  .  .  The  only  belief  that  it  retained 
from  its  former  creed  was  its  anathematization  of  Cap- 
ital— responsible  for  the  war. 

Desnoyers  ventured  to  disagree  with  this  enemy  who 
appeared  of  an  amiable  and  tolerant  character.  "Did  he 
not  think  that  the  real  responsibility  rested  with  German 
militarism  ?  Had  it  not  sought  and  prepared  this  conflict, 
by  its  arrogance  preventing  any  settlement?" 

The  Socialist  denied  this  roundly.  His  deputies  were 
supporting  the  war  and,  therefore,  must  have  good  rea- 
son. Everything  that  he  said  showed  an  absolute  sub- 
mission to  discipline — the  eternal  German  discipline, 
blind  and  obedient,  which  was  dominating  even  the  most 
advanced  parties.  In  vain  the  Frenchman  repeated  argu- 
ments and  facts  which  everybody  had  read  from  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  His  words  simply  slid  over  the 
calloused  brains  of  this  revolutionist,  accustomed  to 
delegating  all  his  reasoning  functions  to  others. 

"Who  can  tell?"  he  finally  said.  "Perhaps  we  have 
made  a  mistake.  But  just  at  this  moment  all  is  confused; 
the  premises  which  would  enable  us  to  draw  exact  con- 
clusions are  lacking.  When  the  conflict  ends,  we  shall 
know  the  truly  guilty  parties,  and  if  they  are  ours  we 
shall  throw  the  responsibility  upon  them." 

Desnoyers  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing  at  his 
simplicity.  To  wait  till  the  end  of  the  war  to  know  who 
was  to  blame!  .  .  .  And  if  the  Empire  should  come  out 
conqueror,  what  responsibility  could  the  Socialists  exact 
in  the  full  pride  of  victory,  they  who  always  confined 
themselves  to  electoral  battles,  without  the  slightest 
attempt  at  rebellion? 

"W^hatever  the  cause  may  be,"  concluded  the  Socialist, 


334    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"this  war  is  very  sad.  How  many  dead!  ...  I  was  at 
Charleroi.  One  has  to  see  modem  warfare  close  by.  .  .  . 
We  shall  conquer;  we  are  going  to  enter  Paris,  so  they 
say,  but  many  of  our  men  must  fall  before  obtaining  the 
final  victory." 

And  as  though  wishing  to  put  these  visions  of  death 
out  of  his  mind,  he  resumed  his  diversion  of  watching 
the  swans,  offering  them  bits  of  bread  so  as  to  make 
them  swing  around  in  their  slow  and  majestic  course. 

The  Keeper  and  his  family  were  continually  crossing 
and  recrossing  the  bridge.  Seeing  their  master  on  such 
friendly  terms  with  the  invaders,  they  had  lost  some  of 
the  fear  which  had  kept  them  shut  up  in  their  cottage. 
To  the  woman  it  seemed  but  natural  that  Don  Marcelo's 
authority  should  be  recognized  by  these  people ;  the  mas- 
ter is  always  the  master.  And  as  though  she  had  received 
a  part  of  this  authority,  she  was  entering  the  castle  fear- 
lessly, followed  by  her  daughter,  in  order  to  put  in  order 
her  masters'  sleeping  room.  They  had  decided  to  pass 
the  night  in  rooms  near  his,  that  he  might  not  feel  so 
lonely  among  the  Germans. 

The  two  women  were  carrying  bedding  and  mattresses 
from  the  lodge  to  the  top  floor.  The  Keeper  was  occupied 
in  heating  a  second  bath  for  His  Excellency  while  his 
wife  was  bemoaning  with  gestures  of  despair  the  sacking 
of  the  castle.  How  many  exquisite  things  had  dis- 
appeared !  .  .  .  Desirous  of  saving  the  remainder,  she 
besought  her  master  to  make  complaints,  as  though  he 
could  prevent  the  individual  and  stealthy  robberies.  The 
orderlies  and  followers  of  the  Count  were  pocketing 
everything  they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  saying  smilingly 
that  they  were  souvenirs.  Later  on  the  woman  ap- 
proached Desnoyers  with  a  mysterious  air  to  impart  a  new 
revelation.  She  had  seen  a  head  officer  force  open  the 
chiffoniers  where  her  mistress  was  accustomed  to  keep 


THE  INVASION  335 

her  lingerie,  and  he  was  making  up  a  package  of  the 
finest  pieces,  including  a  great  quantity  of  blonde  lace. 

"That's  the  one,  Master,"  she  said  soon  after,  pointing 
to  a  German  who  was  writing  in  the  garden,  where  an 
oblique  ray  of  sunlight  was  filtering  through  the  branches 
upon  his  table. 

Don  Marcelo  recognized  him  with  surprise.  Com- 
mandant Blumhardt,  too!  .  .  .  But  immediately  he  ex- 
cused the  act.  He  supposed  it  was  only  natural  that 
this  official  should  want  to  take  something  away  from  the 
castle,  since  the  Count  had  set  the  example.  Besides,  he 
took  into  account  the  quality  of  the  objects  which  he 
was  appropriating.  They  were  not  for  himself ;  they 
were  for  the  wife,  for  the  daughters.  ...  A  good  father 
of  his  family!  For  more  than  an  hour  now,  he  had 
been  sitting  before  that  table  writing  incessantly,  con- 
versing, pen  in  hand,  with  his  Augusta  and  all  the  family 
in  Cassel.  Better  that  this  good  man  should  carry  off 
his  stuff  than  those  other  domineering  officers  with 
cutting  voices  and  insolent  stiffness. 

Desnoyers  noticed,  too,  that  the  writer  raised  his  head 
every  time  that  Georgette,  the  Warden's  daughter,  passed 
by,  following  ^er  with  his  eyes.  The  poor  father  I  .  .  . 
Undoubtedly  he  was  comparing  her  with  his  two  girls 
home  in  Germany,  with  all  their  thoughts  on  the  war. 
He,  too,  was  thinking  of  Chichi,  fearing,  sometimes,  that 
he  might  never  see  her  again.  In  one  of  her  trips  from 
the  castle  to  her  home,  Blumhardt  called  the  child  to  him. 
She  stopped  before  the  table,  timid  and  shrinking  as 
though  she  felt  a  presentiment  of  danger,  but  making  an 
effort  to  smile.  The  Prussian  father  meanwhile  chatted 
with  her,  and  patted  her  cheeks  with  his  great  paws — a 
sight  which  touched  Desnoyers  deeply.  The  memories 
of  a  pacific  and  virtuous  life  were  rising  above  the  hor- 


336    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

rors  of  war.  Decidedly  this  one  enemy  was  a  good  man, 
anyway. 

Because  of  his  conclusion,  the  millionaire  smiled  indul- 
gently when  the  Commandant,  leaving  the  table,  came 
toward  him — after  delivering  his  letter  and  a  bulky 
package  to  a  soldier  to  take  to  the  battalion  post-office 
in  the  village. 

"It  is  for  my  family,"  he  explained.  "I  do  not  let  a 
day  pass  without  sending  them  a  letter.  Theirs  are  so 
precious  to  me!  ...  I  am  also  sending  them  a  few 
remembrances." 

Desnoyers  was  on  the  point  of  protesting.  .  .  .  But  with 
a  shrug  of  indifference,  he  concluded  to  keep  silence  as 
if  he  did  not  object.  The  Commandant  continued  talking 
of  the  sweet  Augusta  and  their  children  while  the  in- 
visible tempest  kept  on  thundering  beyond  the  serene 
twilight  horizon.  Each  time  the  cannonading  was  more 
intense. 

"The  battle,"  continued  Blumhardt.  "Always  a  bat- 
tle! ..  .  Surely  it  is  the  last  and  we  are  going  to  win. 
Within  the  week,  we  shall  be  entering  Paris.  .  .  .  But 
how  many  will  never  see  it !  So  many  dead !  .  .  .  I  under- 
stand that  to-morrow  we  shall  not  be  here.  All  the 
Reserves  are  to  combine  with  the  attack  so  as  to  over- 
come the  last  resistance.  ...   If  only  I  do  not  fall!"  .  .  . 

Thoughts  of  the  possibility  of  death  the  following  day 
contracted  his  forehead  in  a  scowl  of  hatred.  A  deep, 
vertical  line  was  parting  his  eyebrows.  He  frowned 
ferociously  at  Desnoyers  as  though  making  him  respon- 
sible for  his  death  and  the  trouble  of  his  family.  For  a 
few  moments  Don  Marcelo  could  hardly  recognize  this 
man,  transformed  by  warlike  passions,  as  the  sweet- 
natured  and  friendly  Blumhardt  of  a  little  while  before. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  set  when  a  sub-officer,  the 
one  of  the  Social-Democracy,  came  running  in  search  of 


THE  INVASION  337 

the  Commandant.  Desnoyers  could  not  understand  what 
was  the  matter  because  they  were  speaking  in  German, 
but  following  the  direction  of  the  messenger's  continual 
pointing,  he  saw  beyond  the  iron  gates  a  group  of  coun- 
try people  and  some  soldiers  with  guns.  Blumhardt, 
after  a  brief  reflection,  started  toward  the  group  and  Don 
Marcelo  behind  him. 

Soon  he  saw  a  village  lad  in  the  charge  of  some  Ger- 
mans who  were  holding  their  bayonets  to  his  breast.  His 
face  was  colorless,  with  the  whiteness  of  a  wax  candle. 
His  shirt,  blackened  with  soot,  was  so  badly  torn  that  it 
told  of  a  hand-to-hand  struggle.  On  one  temple  was  a 
gash,  bleeding  badly.  A  short  distance  away  was  a 
woman  with  dishevelled  hair,  holding  a  baby,  and  sur- 
rounded by  four  children  all  covered  with  black  grime  as 
though  coming  from  a  coal  mine. 

The  woman  was  pleading  desperately,  raising  her 
hands  appealingly,  her  sobs  interrupting  her  story  which 
she  was  uselessly  trying  to  tell  the  soldiers,  incapable  of 
understanding  her.  The  petty  officer  convoying  the  band 
spoke  in  German  with  the  Commandant  while  the  woman 
besought  the  intervention  of  Desnoyers.  When  she 
recognized  the  owner  of  the  castle,  she  suddenly  regained 
her  serenity,  believing  that  he  could  intercede  for  her. 

That  husky  young  boy  was  her  son.  They  had  all  been 
hiding  since  the  day  before  in  the  cellar  of  their  burned 
house.  Hunger  and  the  danger  of  death  from  asphyxia- 
tion had  forced  them  finally  to  venture  forth.  As  soon 
as  the  Germans  had  seen  her  son,  they  had  beaten  him 
and  were  going  to  shoot  him  as  they  were  shooting  all  the 
young  men.  They  believed  that  the  lad  was  twenty  years 
old,  the  age  of  a  soldier,  and  in  order  that  he  might  not 
join  the  French  army,  they  were  going  to  kill  him. 

"It's  a  lie!"  shrieked  the  mother.    "He  is  not  more 


338    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

than  eighteen  .  .  .  not  eighteen  ...  a  little  less — he's  only 
seventeen." 

She  turned  to  those  who  were  following  behind,  in 
order  to  implore  their  testimony — sad  women,  equally 
dirty,  their  ragged  garments  smelling  of  fire,  poverty  and 
death.  All  assented,  adding  their  outcries  to  those  of  the 
mother.  Some  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  over- 
grown boy  was  only  sixteen  ,  .  .  fifteen !  And  to  this 
feminine  chorus  was  added  the  wailing  of  the  little  ones 
looking  at  their  brother  with  eyes  distended  with  terror. 

The  Commandant  examined  the  prisoner  while  he 
listened  to  the  official.  An  employee  of  the  township 
had  said  carelessly  that  the  child  was  about  twenty,  never 
dreaming  that  with  this  inaccuracy  he  was  causing  his 
death. 

"It  was  a  lie!"  repeated  the  mother,  guessing  instinc- 
tively what  they  were  saying.  "That  man  made  a  mis- 
take. My  boy  is  robust  and,  therefore,  looks  older  than 
he  is,  but  he  is  not  twenty.  .  .  .  The  gentleman  from  the 
castle  who  knows  him  can  tell  you  so.  Is  it  not  so, 
Monsieur  Desnoyers?" 

Since,  in  her  maternal  desperation,  she  had  appealed 
to  his  protection,  Don  Marcelo  believed  that  he  ought  to 
intervene,  and  so  he  spoke  to  the  Commandant.  He  knew 
this  youth  very  well  (he  did  not  ever  remember  having 
seen  him  before)  and  believed  that  he  really  was  under 
twenty. 

"And  even  if  he  were  of  age,"  he  added,  "is  that  a 
crime  to  shoot  a  man  for  ?" 

Blumhardt  did  not  reply.  Since  he  had  recovered  his 
functions  of  command,  he  ignored  absolutely  Don  Mar- 
celo's  existence.  He  was  about  to  say  something,  to 
give  an  order,  but  hesitated.  It  might  be  better  to  consult 
His  Excellency  .  .  .  and  seeirfr  that  he  was  going  toward 
the  castle,  Desnoyers  marched  by  his  side. 


THE  INVASION  339 

"Commandant,  this  cannot  be,"  he  commenced  saying. 
"This  lacks  common  sense.  To  shoot  a  man  on  the 
suspicion  that  he  may  be  twenty  years  old!" 

But  the  Commandant  remained  silent  and  continued  on 
his  way.  As  they  crossed  the  bridge,  they  heard  the 
sound  of  the  piano — a  good  omen,  Desnoyers  thought. 
The  aesthete  who  had  so  touched  him  with  his  impas- 
sioned voice,  was  going  to  say  the  saving  word. 

On  entering  the  salon,  he  did  not  at  first  recognize  His 
Excellency.  He  saw  a  man  sitting  at  the  piano  wearing 
no  clothing  but  a  Japanese  dressing  gown — a  woman's 
rose-colored  kimono,  embroidered  with  golden  birds,  be- 
longing to  Chichi.  At  any  other  time,  he  would  have 
burst  into  roars  of  laughter  at  beholding  this  scrawny, 
bony  warrior  with  the  cruel  eyes,  with  his  brawny 
braceleted  arms  appearing  through  the  loose  sleeves. 
After  taking  his  bath,  the  Count  had  delayed  putting  on 
his  uniform,  luxuriating  in  the  silky  contact  of  the 
feminine  tunic  so  like  his  Oriental  garments  in  Berlin. 
Blumhardt  did  not  betray  the  slightest  astonishment  at 
the  aspect  of  his  general.  In  the  customary  attitude  of 
military  erectness,  he  spoke  in  his  own  language  while 
the  Count  listened  with  a  bored  air,  meanwhile  passing 
his  fingers  idly  over  the  keys. 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  from  a  nearby  window  was  envel- 
oping the  piano  and  musician  in  a  halo  of  gold.  Through 
the  window,  too,  was  wafting  the  poetry  of  the  sunset — 
the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  the  hushed  song  of  the  birds 
and  the  hum  of  the  insects  whose  transparent  wings  were 
glowing  like  sparks  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  The 
General,  annoyed  that  his  dreaming  melancholy  should 
be  interrupted  by  this  inopportune  visit,  cut  short  the 
Commandant's  story  with  a  gesture  of  command  and  a 
word  .  .  .  one  word  only.  He  said  no  more.  He  took 
two  puffs   from   a   Turkish   cigarette   that   was    slowly 


340    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

scorching  the  wood  of  the  piano,  and  again  ran  his  hands 
over  the  ivory  keys,  catching  up  the  broken  threads  of 
the  vague  and  tender  improvisation  inspired  by  the 
gloaming. 

"Thanks,  Your  Excellency,"  said  the  gratified  Desnoy- 
ers,  surmising  his  magnanimous  response. 

The  Commandant  had  disappeared,  nor  could  the 
Frenchman  find  him  outside  the  castle.  A  soldier  was 
pacing  up  and  down  near  the  iron  gates  in  order  to 
transmit  commands,  and  the  guards  were  pushing  back 
with  blows  from  their  guns,  a  screaming  group  of  women 
and  tiny  children.  The  entrance  was  entirely  cleared! 
undoubtedly  the  crowds  were  returning  to  the  village 
after  the  General's  pardon.  .  ,  .  Desnoyers  was  half  way 
down  the  avenue  when  he  heard  a  howling  sound  com- 
posed of  many  voices,  a  hair-raising  shriek  such  as  only 
womanly  desperation  can  send  forth.  At  the  same  lime, 
the  air  was  vibrating  with  snaps,  the  loud  cracking  sound 
that  he  knew  from  the  day  before.  Shots!  .  .  .  He 
imagined  that  on  the  other  side  of  the  iron  railing  there 
were  some  writhing  bodies  struggling  to  escape  from 
powerful  arms,  and  others  fleeing  with  bounds  of  fear. 
He  saw  running  tcvvard  him  a  horror-stricken,  sobbing 
woman  with  her  hands  to  her  head.  It  was  the  wife  of 
the  Keeper  who  a  little  while  before  had  joined  the 
desperate  group  of  women. 

"Oh,  don't  go  on,  Master,"  she  called,  stopping  his 
hurried  step.  "They  have  killed  him.  .  .  .  They  have 
just  shot  him." 

Don  Marcelo  stood  rooted  to  the  ground.  Shot!  .  .  . 
and  after  the  General's  pardon !  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  ran 
back  to  the  castle,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing, 
and  soon  reached  the  salon.  His  Excellency  was  still  at 
the  piano,  humming  in  low  tones,  his  eyes  moistened  by 


THE  INVASION  341 

the  poesy  of  his  dreams.    But  the  breathless  old  gentle- 
man did  not  stop  to  listen. 

"They  have  shot  him.  Your  Excellency.  .  .  .  They  have 
just  killed  him  in  spite  of  your  order." 

The  smile  which  crossed  the  Count's  face  immediately 
informed  him  of  his  mistake. 

"That  is  war,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  player,  paus- 
ing for  a  moment.  "War  with  its  cruel  necessities.  .  .  . 
It  is  always  expedient  to  destroy  the  enemy  of  to-mor- 
row." 

And  with  a  pedantic  air  as  though  he  were  giving  a 
lesson,  he  discoursed  about  the  Orientals,  great  masters 
of  the  art  of  living.  One  of  the  personages  most  admired 
by  him  was  a  certain  Sultan  of  the  Turkish  conquest 
who,  with  his  own  hands,  had  strangled  the  sons  of  the 
adversary.  "Our  foes  do  not  come  into  the  world  on 
horseback  and  brandishing  the  lance,"  said  that  hero. 
"All  are  bom  as  children,  and  it  is  advisable  to  wipe  them 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  before  they  grow  up." 

Desnoyers  listened  without  taking  it  in.  One  thought 
only  was  occupying  his  mind.  .  .  .  That  man  that  he  had 
supposed  just,  that  sentimentalist  so  affected  by  his  own 
singing,  had,  between  two  arpeggios,  coldly  given  the 
order  for  death!  .  .  . 

The  Count  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  He  might 
retire  now,  and  he  counselled  him  to  be  more  discreet  in 
the  future,  avoiding  mixing  himself  up  in  the  affairs  of 
the  service.  Then  he  turned  his  back,  running  his  hands 
over  the  piano,  and  giving  himself  up  to  harmonious 
melancholy. 

For  Don  Marcelo  there  now  began  an  absurd  life  of 
the  most  extraordinary  events,  an  experience  which  was 
going  to  last  four  days.  In  his  life  history,  this  period 
represented  a  long  parenthesis  of  stupefaction,  slashed 
by  the  most  horrible  visions. 


342    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Not  wishing  to  meet  these  men  again,  he  abandoned 
his  own  bedroom,  taking  refuge  on  the  top  floor  in  the 
servants'  quarters,  near  the  room  selected  by  the  Warden 
and  his  family.  In  vain  the  good  woman  kept  offering 
him  things  to  eat  as  the  night  came  on — he  had  no 
appetite.  He  lay  stretched  out  on  the  bed,  preferring  to 
be  alone  with  his  thoughts  in  the  dark.  When  would  this 
martyrdom  ever  come  to  an  end?  .  .  . 

There  came  into  his  mind  the  recollection  of  a  trip 
which  he  had  made  to  London  some  years  ago.  In  his 
imagination  he  again  saw  the  British  Museum  and  certain 
Assyrian  bas-reliefs — relics  of  bestial  humanity,  which 
had  filled  him  with  terror.  The  warriors  were  repre- 
sented as  burning  the  towns  ;  the  prisoners  were  beheaded 
in  heaps;  the  pacific  countrymen  were  marching  in  lines 
with  chains  on  their  necks,  forming  strings  of  slaves. 
Until  that  moment  he  had  never  realized  the  advance 
which  civilization  had  made  through  the  centuries.  Wars 
were  still  breaking  out  now  and  then,  but  they  had  been 
regulated  by  the  march  of  progress.  The  life  of  the 
prisoner  was  now  held  sacred;  the  captured  towns  must 
be  respected;  there  existed  a  complete  code  of  inter- 
national law  to  regulate  how  men  should  be  killed  and 
nations  should  combat,  causing  the  least  possible  harm. 
.  .  .  But  now  he  had  just  seen  the  primitive  realities  of 
war.  The  same  as  that  of  thousands  of  years  ago!  The 
men  with  the  helmets  were  proceeding  in  exactly  the 
same  way  as  those  ferocious  and  perfumed  satraps  with 
blue  mitre  and  curled  beard.  The  adversary  was  shot 
although  not  carrying  arms ;  the  prisoner  died  of  shot  or 
blow  from  the  g^n;  the  civilian  captives  were  sent  in 
crowds  to  Germany  like  those  of  other  centuries.  Of 
what  avail  was  all  our  so-called  Progress?  Where  was 
our  boasted  civilization?  .  .  . 

He  was  awakened  by  the  light  of  a  candle  in  his  eyes. 


THE  INVASION  343 

The  Warden's  wife  had  come  up  again  to  see  if  he 
needed  anything. 

"Oh,  what  a  night,  Master!  .  .  .  Just  hear  them  yeUing 
and  singing!  The  bottles  that  they  have  emptied!  .  .  . 
They  are  in  the  dining  room.  You  better  not  see  them. 
Now  they  are  amusing  themselves  by  breaking  the  furni- 
ture. Even  the  Count  is  drunk;  drunk,  too,  is  that 
Commandant  that  you  were  talking  with,  and  all  the 
rest.  .  .  .    Some  of  them  are  dancing,  half-naked." 

She  evidently  wished  to  keep  quiet  about  certain  de- 
tails, but  her  love  of  talking  got  the  better  of  her  dis- 
cretion. Some  of  the  officers  had  dressed  themselves  up 
in  the  hats  and  gowns  of  her  mistress  and  were  dancing 
and  shouting,  imitating  feminine  seductiveness  and 
affectations.  .  .  .  One  of  them  had  been  greeted  with 
roars  of  enthusiasm  upon  presenting  himself  with  no 
other  clothing  than  a  "combination"  of  Mademoiselle 
Chichi's.  Many  were  taking  obscene  delight  in  soiling 
the  rugs  and  filling  the  sideboard  drawers  with  inde- 
scribable filth,  using  the  finest  linens  that  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on. 

Her  master  silenced  her  peremptorily.  Why  tell  him 
such  vile,  disgusting  things?  .  .  . 

"And  we  are  obliged  to  wait  on  them !"  wailed  the 
woman.  "They  are  beside  themselves ;  they  appear  like 
different  beings.  The  soldiers  are  saying  that  they  are 
going  to  resume  their  march  at  daybreak.  There  is  a  great 
battle  on,  and  they  are  going  to  win  it ;  but  it  is  necessary 
that  every  one  of  them  should  fight  in  it.  .  .  .  My  poor, 
sick  husband  just  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  So  many 
humiliations  .  .  .  and  my  little  girl.  .  .  .  My  little  girl !" 

The  child  was  her  greatest  anxiety.  She  had  her  well 
hidden  away,  but  she  was  watching  uneasily  the  goings 
and  comings  of  some  of  these  men  maddened  with  alco- 


344    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

hoi.    The  most  terrible  of  them  all  was  that  fat  officer 
who  had  patted  Georgette  so  paternally. 

Apprehension    for   her   daughter's    safety   made   her 
hurry  restlessly  away,  saying  over  and  over: 

"God  has  forgotten  the  world.  .  .  .  Ay,  what  is  ever 
going  to  become  of  us!" 

Don  Marcelo  was  now  tinglingly  awake.  Through  the 
open  window  was  blowing  the  clear  night  air.  The  can- 
nonading was  still  going  on,  prolonging  the  conflict  way 
into  the  night.  Below  the  castle  the  soldiers  were  inton- 
ing a  slow  and  melodious  chant  that  sounded  like  a 
psalm.  From  the  interior  of  the  edifice  rose  the  whoop- 
ings  of  brutal  laughter,  the  crash  of  breaking  furniture, 
and  the  mad  chase  of  dissolute  pursuit.  When  would 
this  diaboRcal  orgy  ever  wear  itself  down?  .  .  .  For  a 
long  time  he  was  not  at  all  sleepy,  but  was  gradually 
losing  consciousness  of  what  was  going  on  around  him 
when  he  was  roused  with  a  start.  Near  him,  on  the 
same  floor,  a  door  had  fallen  with  a  crash,  unable  to 
resist  a  succession  of  formidable  batterings.  This  was 
followed  immediately  by  the  screams  of  a  woman,  weep- 
ing, desperate  supplications,  the  noise  of  a  struggle, 
reeling  steps,  and  the  thud  of  bodies  against  the  wall. 
He  had  a  presentiment  that  it  was  Georgette  shrieking 
and  trying  to  defend  herself.  Before  he  could  put  his 
feet  to  the  floor  he  heard  a  man's  voice,  which  he  was 
sure  was  the  Keeper's;  she  was  safe. 

"Ah,  you  villain!"  .  .  . 

Then  the  outbreak  of  a  second  struggle  ...  a  shot  .  .  . 
silence ! 

Rushing  down  the  hallway  that  ended  at  the  stairway 
Desnoyers  saw  lights,  and  many  men  who  came  trooping 
up  the  stairs,  bounding  over  several  steps  at  a  time.  He 
almost  fell  over  a  body  from  which  escaped  a  groan  of 
agony.    At  his  feet  lay  the  Warden,  his  chest  moving  like 


THE  INVASION  345 

a  pair  of  bellows,  his  eyes  glassy  and  unnaturally  dis- 
tended, his  mouth  covered  with  blood.  .  .  .  Near  him 
glistened  a  kitchen  knife.  Then  he  saw  a  man  with  a 
revolver  in  one  hand,  and  holding  shut  with  the  other  a 
broken  door  that  someone  was  trying  to  open  from  with- 
in. Don  Marcelo  recognized  him,  in  spite  of  his  greenish 
pallor  and  wild  look.  It  was  Blumhardt — another  Blum- 
hardt  with  a  bestial  expression  of  terrifying  ferocity 
and  lust. 

Don  Marcelo  could  see  clearly  how  it  had  all  hap- 
pened— the  debauchee  rushing  through  the  castle  in 
search  of  his  prey,  the  anxious  father  in  close  pursuit, 
the  cries  of  the  girl,  the  unequal  struggle  between  the 
consumptive  with  his  emergency  weapon  and  the  warrior 
triumphant.  The  fury  of  his  youth  awoke  in  the  old 
Frenchman,  sweeping  everything  before  it.  What  did  it 
matter  if  he  did  die?  .  .  . 

"Ah,  you  villain !"  he  yelled,  as  the  poor  father  had 
done. 

And  with  clenched  fists  he  marched  up  to  the  German, 
who  smiled  coldly  and  held  his  revolver  to  his  eyes.  He 
was  just  going  to  shoot  him  ,  .  .  but  at  that  instant  Des- 
noyers  fell  to  the  floor,  knocked  down  by  those  who  were 
leaping  up  the  stairs.  He  received  many  blows,  the  heavy 
boots  of  the  invaders  hammering  him  with  their  heels- 
He  felt  a  hot  stream  pouring  over  his  face.  Blood !  .  .  . 
He  did  not  know  whether  it  was  his  own  or  that  of  the 
palpitating  mortal  slowly  dying  beside  him.  Then  he 
found  himself  lifted  from  the  floor  by  many  hands  which 
pushed  him  toward  a  man.  It  was  His  Excellency,  with 
his  uniform  burst  open  and  smelling  of  wine.  Eyes  and 
voice  were  both  trembling. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  stuttered,  trying  to  recover  this 
suave  irony,  'T  warned  you  not  to  interfere  in  our  affairs 


346    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

and  you  have  not  obeyed  me.  You  may  now  take  the 
consequences  of  your  lack  of  discretion." 

He  gave  an  order,  and  the  old  man  felt  himself  pushed 
downstairs  to  the  cellars  underneath  the  castle.  Those 
conducting  him  were  soldiers  under  the  command  of  a 
petty  officer  whom  he  recognized  as  the  Socialist.  This 
young  professor  was  the  only  one  sober,  but  he  main- 
tained himself  erect  and  unapproachable  with  the  ferocity 
of  discipline. 

He  put  his  prisoner  into  an  arched  vault  without  any 
breathing-place  except  a  tiny  window  on  a  level  with  the 
floor.  Many  broken  bottles  and  chests  with  some  straw 
were  all  that  was  in  the  cave. 

"You  have  insulted  a  head  officer!"  said  the  official 
roughly,  "and  they  will  probably  shoot  you  to-morrow. 
Your  only  salvation  lies  in  the  continuance  of  the  revels, 
in  which  case  they  may  forget  you." 

As  the  door  of  this  sub-cellar  was  broken,  like  all  the 
others  in  the  building,  a  pile  of  boxes  and  furniture  was 
heaped  in  the  entrance  way. 

Don  Marcelo  passed  the  rest  of  the  night  tormented 
with  the  cold — the  only  thing  which  worried  him  just 
then.  He  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  life ;  even  the 
images  of  his  family  seemed  blotted  from  his  memory. 
He  worked  in  the  dark  in  order  to  make  himself  more 
comfortable  on  the  chests,  burrowing  down  into  the 
straw  for  the  sake  of  its  heat.  When  the  morning  breeze 
began  to  sift  in  through  the  little  window  he  fell  slowly 
into  a  heavy,  overpowering  sleep,  like  that  of  criminals 
condemned  to  death,  or  duellists  before  the  fatal  morn- 
ing. He  thought  he  heard  shouts  in  German,  the  gallop- 
ing of  horses,  a  distant  sound  of  tattoo  and  whistle  such 
as  the  battalions  of  the  invaders  made  with  their  fifes  and 
drums.  .  .  .  Then  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  his  sur- 
roundings. 


THE  INVASION  347 

On  opening  his  eyes  again  a  ray  of  sunlight,  slipping 
through  the  window,  was  tracing  a  little  golden  square  on 
the  wall,  giving  a  regal  splendor  to  the  hanging  cobwebs. 
Somebody  was  removing  the  barricade  before  the  door. 
A  woman's  voice,  timid  and  distressed,  was  calling 
repeatedly : 

"Master,  are  you  here?" 

He  sprang  up  quickly,  wishing  to  aid  the  worker  out- 
side, and  pushing  vigorously.  He  thought  that  the 
invaders  must  have  left.  In  no  other  way  could  he 
imagine  the  Warden's  wife  daring  to  try  to  get  him  out 
of  his  cell. 

"Yes,  they  have  gone,"  she  said.  "Nobody  is  left  in 
the  castle." 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  get  out  Don  Marcelo  looked 
inquiringly  at  the  woman  with  her  bloodshot  eyes,  dis- 
hevelled hair  and  sorrow-drawn  face.  The  night  had 
weighed  her  down  pitilessly  with  the  pressure  of  many 
years.  All  the  energy  with  which  she  had  been  working 
to  free  Desnoyers  disappeared  on  seeing  him  again.  "Oh, 
Master  .  .  .  Master,"  she  moaned  convulsively ;  and  she 
flung  herself  into  his  arms,  bursting  into  tears. 

Don  Marcelo  did  not  need  to  ask  anything  further ;  he 
dreaded  to  know  the  truth.  Nevertheless,  he  asked  after 
her  husband.  Now  that  he  was  awake  and  free,  he 
cherished  the  fleeting  hope  that  what  he  had  gone  through 
the  night  before  was  but  another  of  his  nightmares. 
Perhaps  the  poor  man  was  still  living. 

"They  killed  him,  Monsieur.  That  man  who  seemed 
so  good  murdered  him,  .  .  .  And  I  don't  know  where  his 
body  is;  nobody  will  tell  me." 

She  had  a  suspicion  that  the  corpse  was  in  the  fosse. 
The  green  and  tranquil  waters  had  closed  mysteriously 
over  this  victim  of  the  night.  .  ,  .  Desnoyers  suspected 
that  another  sorrow  was  troubling  the  mother  still  more. 


348    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

but  he  kept  modestly  silent.  It  was  she  who  finally  spoke, 
between  outbursts  of  grief.  ,  ,  .  Georgette  was  now  in 
the  lodge.  Horror-stricken  and  shuddering,  she  had  fled 
there  when  the  invaders  had  left  the  castle.  They  had 
kept  her  in  their  power  until  the  last  minute. 

"Oh,  Master,  don't  look  at  her.  .  .  .  She  is  trembling 
and  sobbing  at  the  thought  that  you  may  speak  with  her 
about  what  she  has  gone  through.  She  is  almost  out  of 
her  mind.  She  longs  to  die !  Ay,  my  little  girl !  ,  .  . 
And  is  there  no  one  who  will  punish  these  monsters  ?" 

They  had  come  up  from  the  cellars  and  crossed  the 
bridge,  the  woman  looking  fixedly  into  the  silent  waters. 
The  dead  body  of  a  swan  was  floating  upon  them.  Be- 
fore their  departure,  while  their  horses  were  being 
saddled,  two  officers  had  amused  themselves  by  chasing 
with  revolver  shots  the  birds  swimming  in  the  moat.  The 
aquatic  plants  were  spotted  with  blood ;  among  the  leaves 
were  floating  some  tufts  of  limp  white  plumage  like  a  bit 
of  washing  escaped  from  the  hands  of  a  laundress. 

Don  Marcelo  and  the  woman  exchanged  a  compassion- 
ate glance,  and  then  looked  pityingly  at  each  other  as 
the  sun-light  brought  out  more  strongly  their  aging,  wan 
appearance. 

The  passing  of  these  people  had  destroyed  everything. 
There  was  no  food  left  in  the  castle  except  some  crusts 
of  dry  bread  forgotten  in  the  kitchen.  "And  we  have  to 
live,  Monsieur!"  exclaimed  the  woman  with  reviving 
energy  as  she  thought  of  her  daughter's  need.  "We  have 
to  live,  if  only  to  see  how  God  punishes  them !"  .  .  .  The 
old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  despair;  God?  .  .  . 
But  the  woman  was  right ;  they  had  to  live. 

With  the  famished  audacity  of  his  early  youth,  when 
he  was  travelling  over  boundless  tracts  of  land,  driving 
his  herds  of  cattle,  he  now  rushed  outside  the  park, 
hunting  for  some  form  of  sustenance.  He  saw  the  valley, 


THE  INVASION  349 

fair  and  green,  basking  in  the  sun ;  the  groups  of  trees, 
the  plots  of  yellowish  soil  with  the  hard  spikes  of  stub- 
ble ;  the  hedges  in  which  the  birds  were  singing — all  the 
summer  splendor  of  a  countryside  developed  and  culti- 
vated during  fifteen  centuries  by  dozens  and  dozens  of 
generations.  And  yet — here  he  was  alone  at  the  mercy 
of  chance,  likely  to  perish  with  hunger — more  alone  than 
when  he  was  crossing  the  towering  heights  of  the  Andes 
— those  irregular  slopes  of  rocks  and  snow  wrapped  in 
endless  silence,  only  broken  from  time  to  time  by  the 
flapping  of  the  condor's  wings.  Nobody.  .  .  .  His  gaze 
could  not  distinguish  a  single  movable  point — everything 
fixed,  motionless,  crystallized,  as  though  contracted  with 
fear  before  the  peals  of  thunder  which  were  still  rum- 
bling around  the  horizon. 

He  went  on  toward  the  village — a  mass  of  black  walls 
with  a  few  houses  still  intact,  and  a  roofless  bell  tower 
with  its  cross  twisted  by  fire.  Nobody  in  the  streets  sown 
with  bottles,  charred  chunks  of  wood,  and  soot-covered 
rubbish.  The  dead  bodies  had  disappeared,  but  a  nause- 
ating smell  of  decomposing  and  burned  flesh  assailed  his 
nostrils.  He  saw  a  mound  of  earth  where  the  shooting 
had  taken  place,  and  from  it  were  protruding  two  feet 
and  a  hand.  At  his  approach  several  black  forms  flew 
up  into  the  air  from  a  trench  so  shallow  that  the  bodies 
within  were  exposed  to  view.  A  whirring  of  stiff  wings 
beat  the  air  above  him,  flying  off  with  the  croakings  of 
wrath.  He  explored  every  nook  and  corner,  even 
approaching  the  place  where  the  troopers  had  erected 
their  barricade.     The  carts  were  still  by  the  roadside. 

He  then  retraced  his  steps,  calling  out  before  the  least 
injured  houses,  and  putting  his  head  through  the  doors 
and  windows  that  were  unobstructed  or  but  half  con- 
sumed. Was  nobody  left  in  Villeblanche  ?  .  .  .  He 
descried  among  the  ruins  something  adv.icing  on  all 


350    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

fours,  a  species  of  reptile  that  stopped  its  crawling  with 
movements  of  hesitation  and  fear,  ready  to  retreat  or 
slip  into  its  hole  under  the  ruins.  Suddenly  the  creature 
stopped  and  stood  up.  It  was  a  man,  an  old  man.  Other 
human  larvae  were  coming  forth  conjured  by  his  shouts — 
poor  beings  who  hours  ago  had  given  up  the  standing 
position  which  would  have  attracted  the  bullets  of  the 
enemy,  and  had  been  enviously  imitating  the  lower 
organisms,  squirming  through  the  dirt  as  fast  as  they 
could  scurry  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  They  were 
mostly  women  and  children,  all  filthy  and  black,  with 
snarled  hair,  the  fierceness  of  animal  appetite  in  their 
eyes — the  faintness  of  the  weak  animal  in  their  hanging 
jaws.  They  were  all  living  hidden  in  the  ruins  of  their 
homes.  Fear  had  made  them  temporarily  forget  their 
hunger,  but  finding  that  the  enemy  had  gone,  they  were 
suddenly  assailed  by  all  necessitous  demands,  intensified 
by  hours  of  anguish. 

Desnoyers  felt  as  though  he  were  surrounded  by  a 
tribe  of  brutalized  and  famished  Indians  like  those  he 
had  often  seen  in  his  adventurous  voyages  He  had 
brought  with  him  from  Paris  a  quantity  of  gold  pieces, 
and  he  pulled  out  a  coin  which  glittered  in  the  run. 
Bread  was  needed,  everything  eatable  was  needed;  he 
would  pay  without  haggling. 

The  flash  of  gold  aroused  looks  of  enthusiasm  and 
greediness,  but  this  impression  was  short-lived,  all  eyes 
contemplating  the  yellow  discs  with  indifference.  Don 
Marcelo  was  himself  convinced  that  the  miraculous 
charm  had  lost  its  power.  They  all  chanted  a  chorus  of 
sorrow  and  horrors  with  slow  and  plaintive  voice,  as 
though  they  stood  weeping  before  a  bier :  "Monsieur,  they 
have  killed  my  husband."  .  .  .  "Monsieur,  my  sons!  Two 
of  them  are  missing."  .  .  .  "Monsieur,  they  have  taken 
all  the  men  prisoners :  they  say  it  is  to  work  the  land  in 


THE  INVASION  351 

Germany."  .  .  .  "Monsieur,  bread!  .  .  .  My  little  ones 
are  dying  of  hunger!" 

One  woman  was  lamenting  something  worse  than 
death.  "My  girl!  .  .  .  My  poor  girl!"  Her  look  of 
hatred  and  wild  desperation  revealed  the  secret  tragedy; 
her  outcries  and  tears  recalled  that  other  mother  who 
was  sobbing  in  the  same  way  up  at  the  castle.  In  the 
depths  of  some  cave,  was  lying  the  victim,  half-dead  with 
fatigue,  shaken  with  a  wild  delirium  in  which  she  still 
saw  the  succession  of  brutal  faces,  inflamed  with  simian 
passion. 

The  miserable  group,  forming  themselves  into  a  circle 
around  him,  stretched  out  their  hands  beseechingly 
toward  the  man  whom  they  knew  to  be  so  very  rich. 
The  women  showed  him  the  death-pallor  on  the  faces  of 
their  scarcely  breathing  babies,  their  eyes  glazed  with 
starvation.  "Bread !  .  .  .  bread !"  they  implored,  as 
though  he  could  work  a  miracle.  He  gave  to  one  mother 
the  gold  piece  that  he  had  in  his  hand  and  distributed 
more  to  the  others.  They  took  them  without  looking  at 
them,  and  continued  their  lament,  "Bread!  .  .  .  Bread!" 
And  he  had  gone  to  the  village  to  make  the  same  sup- 
plication !  .  .  .  He  fled,  recognizing  the  uselessness  of  his 
efforts. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS 

Returning  in  desperation  to  his  estate,  Don  Marcelo 
Desnoyers  saw  huge  automobiles  and  men  on  horseback, 
forming  a  very  long  convoy  and  completely  filling  the 
road.  They  were  all  going  in  his  direction.  At  the 
entrance  to  the  park  a  band  of  Germans  was  putting  up 
the  wires  for  a  telephone  line.  They  had  just  been  re- 
connoitring the  rooms  befouled  with  the  night's  satur- 
nalia, and  were  ha-haing  boisterously  over  Captain  von 
Hartrott's  inscription,  "Bitte,  nicht  pliindern."  To  them 
it  seemed  the  acme  of  wit — truly  Teutonic. 

The  convoy  now  invaded  the  park  with  its  automobiles 
and  trucks  bearing  a  red  cross.  A  war  hospital  was  going 
to  be  established  in  the  castle.  The  doctors  were  dressed 
in  grayish  green  and  armed  the  same  as  the  officers ;  they 
also  imitated  their  freezing  hauteur  and  repellent  unap- 
proachableness.  There  came  out  of  the  drays  hundreds 
of  folding  cots,  which  were  placed  in  rows  in  the  differ- 
ent rooms.  The  furniture  that  still  remained  was  thrown 
out  in  a  heap  under  the  trees.  Squads  of  soldiers  were 
obeying  with  mechanical  promptitude  the  brief  and  im- 
perious orders.  An  odor  of  an  apothecary  shop,  of 
concentrated  drugs,  now  pervaded  the  quarters,  mixed 
with  the  strong  smell  of  the  antiseptics  with  which  they 
were  sprinkling  the  walls  in  order  to  disinfect  the  filthy 
remains  of  the  nocturnal  orgy. 

Then  he  saw  women  clad  in  white,  buxom  girls  with 

35* 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         353 

blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair.  They  were  grave,  bland, 
austere  and  implacable  in  appearance.  Several  times  they 
pushed  Desnoyers  out  of  their  way  as  if  they  did  not 
see  him.  They  looked  like  nuns,  but  with  revolvers 
under  their  habits. 

At  midday  other  automobiles  began  to  arrive,  attracted 
by  the  enormous  white  flag  with  the  red  cross,  which  was 
now  waving  from  the  castle  tower.  They  came  from  the 
division  battling  beyond  the  Mame.  Their  metal  fittings 
were  dented  by  projectiles,  their  wind-shields  broken  by 
star-shaped  holes.  From  their  interiors  appeared  men 
and  more  men ;  some  on  foot,  others  on  canvas  stretchers 
— faces  pale  and  rubicund,  profiles  aquiline  and  snubby, 
red  heads  and  skulls  wrapped  in  white  turbans  stiff  with 
blood;  mouths  that  laughed  with  bravado  and  mouths 
that  groaned  with  bluish  lips;  jaws  supported  with 
mummy-like  bandages;  giants  in  agony  whose  wounds 
were  not  apparent ;  shapeless  forms  ending  in  a  head  that 
talked  and  smoked;  legs  with  hanging  flesh  that  was 
dyeing  the  First  Aid  wrappings  with  their  red  moisture ; 
arms  that  hung  as  inert  as  dead  boughs ;  torn  uniforms 
in  which  were  conspicuous  the  tragic  vacancies  of  absent 
members. 

This  avalanche  of  suffering  was  quickly  distributed 
throughout  the  castle.  In  a  few  hours  it  was  so  com- 
pletely filled  that  there  was  not  a  vacant  bed — ^the  last 
arrivals  being  laid  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  The  tele- 
phones were  ringing  incessantly ;  the  surgeons  in  coarse 
aprons  were  going  from  one  side  to  the  other,  working 
rapidly ;  human  life  was  submitted  to  savage  proceedings 
with  roughness  and  celerity.  Those  who  died  under  it 
simply  left  one  more  cot  free  for  the  others  that  kept  on 
coming.  Desnoyers  saw  bloody  baskets  filled  with  shape- 
less masses  of  flesh,  strips  of  skin,  broken  bones,  entire 
limbs.     The  orderlies  were  carrying  these  terrible  rem- 


354    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

nants  to  the  foot  of  the  park  in  order  to  bury  them  in  a 
little  plot  which  had  been  Chichi's  favorite  reading  nook. 

Pairs  of  soldiers  were  carrying  out  objects  wrapped  in 
sheets  which  the  owner  recognized  as  his.  These  were 
the  dead,  and  the  park  was  soon  converted  into  a  ceme- 
tery. No  longer  was  the  little  retreat  large  enough  to 
hold  the  corpses  and  the  severed  remains  from  the 
operations.  New  grave  trenches  were  being  opened  near 
by.  The  Germans  armed  with  shovels  were  pressing  into 
service  a  dozen  of  the  farmer-prisoners  to  aid  in  unload- 
ing the  dead.  Now  they  were  bringing  them  down  by 
the  cartload,  dumping  them  in  like  the  rubbish  from 
some  demolished  building.  Don  Marcelo  felt  an  abnormal 
delight  in  contemplating  this  increasing  number  of  van- 
quished enemies,  yet  he  grieved  at  the  same  time  that 
this  precipitation  of  intruders  should  be  deposited  for- 
ever on  his  property. 

At  nightfall,  overwhelmed  by  so  many  emotionS(,  he 
again  suffered  the  torments  of  hunger.  All  day  long  he 
had  eaten  nothing  but  the  crust  of  bread  found  in  the 
kitchen  by  the  Warden's  wife.  The  rest  he  had  left  for 
her  and  her  daughter.  A  distress  as  harrowing  to  him 
as  his  hunger  was  the  sight  of  poor  Georgette's  shocked 
despondency.  She  was  always  trying  to  escape  from  his 
presence  in  an  agony  of  shame. 

"Don't  let  the  Master  see  me !"  she  would  cry,  hiding 
her  face.  Since  his  presence  seemed  to  recall  more 
vividly  the  memory  of  her  assaults,  Desnoyers  tried, 
while  in  the  lodge,  to  avoid  going  near  her. 

Desperate  with  the  gnawings  of  his  empty  stomach,  he 
accosted  several  doctors  who  were  speaking  French,  but 
all  in  vain.  They  would  not  listen  to  him,  and  when  he 
repeated  his  petitions  they  pushed  him  roughly  out  of 
their  way.  ,  .  .  He  was  not  going  to  perish  with  hunger 
in  the  midst  of  his  riches !  Those  people  were  eating ;  the 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         355 

indifferent  nurses  had  established  themselves  in  his 
kitchen.  .  .  .  But  the  time  passed  on  without  encountering 
anybody  who  would  take  pity  on  this  old  man  dragging 
himself  weakly  from  one  place  to  another,  in  the  misery 
of  an  old  age  intensified  by  despair,  and  suffering  in 
every  part  of  the  body,  the  results  of  the  blows  of  the 
night  before.  He  now  knew  the  gnawings  of  a  hunger 
far  worse  than  that  which  he  had  suffered  when  journey- 
ing over  the  desert  plains — a  hunger  among  men,  in  a 
civilized  country,  wearing  a  belt  filled  with  gold,  sur- 
rounded with  towers  and  castle  halls  which  were  his,  but 
in  the  control  of  others  who  would  not  condescend  to 
listen  to  him.  And  for  this  piteous  ending  of  his  life  he 
had  amassed  millions  and  returned  to  Europe!  .  .  .  Ah, 
the  irony  of  fate !  .  .  . 

He  saw  a  doctor's  assistant  leaning  up  against  a  tree, 
about  to  devour  a  slab  of  bread  and  sausage.  His  envious 
eyes  scrutinized  this  fellow,  tall,  thick-set,  his  jaws 
bristling  with  a  great  red  beard.  The  trembling  old  man 
staggered  up  to  him,  begging  for  the  food  by  signs  and 
holding  out  a  piece  of  money.  The  German's  eyes 
glistened  at  the  sight  of  the  gold,  and  a  beatific  smile 
stretched  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Yay  he  responded,  and  grabbing  the  money,  he 
handed  over  the  food. 

Don  Marcelo  commenced  to  swallow  it  with  avidity. 
Never  had  he  so  appreciated  the  sheer  ecstasy  of  eating 
as  at  that  instant — in  the  midst  of  his  gardens  converted 
into  a  cemetery,  before  his  despoiled  castle  where  hun- 
dreds of  human  beings  were  groaning  in  agony.  A 
grayish  arm  passed  before  his  eyes;  it  belonged  to  the 
German,  who  had  returned  with  two  slices  of  bread  and 
a  bit  of  meat  snatched  from  the  kitchen.  He  repeated 
his  smirking  "Ya?"  .  .  .  and  after  his  victim  had  secured 


356    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

it  by  means  of  another  gold  coin,  he  was  able  to  take 
it  to  the  two  women  hidden  in  the  cottage. 

During  the  night — ^a  night  of  painful  watching,  cut 
with  visions  of  horror,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  roar  of 
the  artillery  was  coming  nearer.  It  was  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible difference,  perhaps  the  effect  of  the  silence  of 
tiie  night  which  always  intensifies  sound.  The  ambulances 
continued  coming  from  the  front,  discharging  their 
cargoes  of  riddled  htimanity  and  going  back  for  more. 
Desnoyers  surmised  that  his  castle  was  but  one  of  the 
many  hospitals  established  in  a  line  of  more  than  eighty 
miles,  and  that  on  the  other  side,  behind  the  French,  were 
many  similar  ones  in  which  the  same  activity  was  going 
on — the  consignments  of  dying  men  succeeding  each  other 
with  terrif\-ing  frequencj*.  Many  of  the  combatants 
were  not  even  having  the  satisfaction  of  being  taken  from 
the  battle  field,  but  were  lying  groaning  on  the  ground, 
burying  their  bleeding  members  in  the  dust  or  mud,  and 
weltering  in  the  ooze  from  their  woimds.  .  ,  .  And  Don 
Marcelo,  who  a  few  hours  before  had  been  considering 
himself  the  unhappiest  of  mortals,  now  experienced  a 
cruel  joy  in  reflecting  that  so  many  thousands  of  vigorous 
men  at  the  point  of  death  could  well  envy  him  for  his 
hale  old  age,  and  for  the  tranquillity  with  which  he  was 
reposing  on  that  humble  bed. 

The  next  morning  the  orderly  was  waiting  for  him  in 
the  same  place,  holding  out  a  napkin  filled  with  eatables. 
Good  red-bearded  man,  helpful  and  kind!  .  .  .  and  he 
offered  him  the  piece  of  gold. 

"Nein,"  replied  the  fellow,  with  a  broad,  malicious 
grin.  Two  gleaming  gold  pieces  appeared  between  Don 
Marcelo's  fingers.  Another  leering  "Nein"  and  a  shake 
of  the  head.  Ah,  the  robber!  How  he  was  taking 
advantage  of  his  necessitj!  .  .  .    And  not  until  he  had 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         357 

produced  five  gold  coins  was  he  able  to  secure  the 
package. 

He  soon  b^an  to  notice  all  around  him  a  silent  and  sfy 
conspiracy  to  get  possession  of  his  monej.  A  giant  in  a 
seiigeant's  nniform  put  a  shovel  in  his  hand,  pushing  him 
roughly  forward.  He  soon  found  himself  in  a  comer  of 
the  park  that  had  been  transformed  into  a  graveyard, 
near  the  cart  of  cadavers ;  there  he  had  to  shovel  dirt  on 
his  own  ground  in  company  with  tiie  indignant  priscmers. 

He  averted  his  eyes  so  as  not  to  UmIc  at  the  rigid  and 
grotesque  bodies  piled  above  him  at  the  edge  of  the  pi^ 
ready  to  be  tumbled  in.  The  ground  was  sending  forth  an 
insufferable  odor,  for  decomposition  had  already  set  in 
in  the  neaiby  trenches.  The  per^stence  with  which  his 
overseers  accosted  him,  and  the  ciafty  smfle  of  the 
sergeant  made  him  see  through  the  deq>-laid  scheme. 
The  red-beard  must  be  at  die  bottom  of  all  this.  Putting 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  he  dropped  die  shovd  with  a  look 
of  interrogation.  "Ya^  replied  die  sergeant.  After  hand- 
ing over  the  required  sum,  the  tormented  old  man  was 
permitted  to  stop  grave-digging  and  wander  around  at 
his  pleasure;  he  knew,  however,  what  was  probably  in 
store  for  him — those  men  were  going  to  submit  him  to 
a  mercOess  exploitation. 

Anodier  day  passed  by,  like  its  predecessor.  In  the 
morning  of  the  following  day  his  perceptions,  sharpened 
by  apprehension,  made  him  conjecture  that  smnething 
extraordinary  had  occurred-  The  automobiles  were 
arriving  and  departing  with  greater  rapidity,  and  there 
was  greater  disorder  and  confusion  among  the  executive 
force.  The  telephone  was  ringing  with  mad  precipita- 
tion; and  the  wounded  arrivals  seemed  more  depressed. 
The  day  before  they  had  been  singing  when  taken  from 
the  vehicles,  hiding  their  woe  with  laughter  and  bravado, 
all  talking  of  the  near  victory  and  r^retting  that  they 


358     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

would  not  be  able  to  witness  the  triumphal  entry  into 
Paris.  Now  they  were  all  very  silent,  with  furrowed 
brows,  thinking  no  longer  about  what  was  going  on  be- 
hind them,  wondering  only  about  their  own  fate. 

Outside  the  park  was  the  buzz  of  the  approaching 
throng  which  was  blackening  the  roads.  The  invasion 
was  beginning  again,  but  with  a  refluent  movement.  For 
hours  at  a  time  great  strings  of  gray  trucks  were  puffing 
by ;  then  regiments  of  infantry,  squadrons,  rolling  stock. 
They  were  marching  very  slowly  with  a  deliberation  that 
puzzled  Desnoyers,  who  could  not  make  out  whether  this 
recessional  meant  flight  or  change  of  position.  The  only 
thing  that  gave  him  any  satisfaction  was  the  stupefied 
and  downcast  appearance  of  the  soldiers,  the  gloomy 
sulks  of  the  officers.  Nobody  was  shouting;  they  all 
appeared  to  have  forgotten  their  "Nach  Paris!"  The 
greenish  gray  monster  still  had  its  armed  head  stretched 
across  the  other  side  of  the  Mame,  but  its  tail  was 
beginning  to  uncoil  with  uneasy  wrigglings. 

After  night  had  settled  down  the  troops  were  still  con- 
tinuing to  fall  back.  The  cannonading  was  certainly 
coming  nearer.  Some  of  the  thunderous  claps  sounded 
so  close  that  they  made  the  glass  tremble  in  the  windows. 
A  fugitive  farmer,  trying  to  find  refuge  in  the  park,  gave 
Don  Marcelo  some  news.  The  Germans  were  in  full 
retreat.  They  had  installed  some  of  their  batteries  on 
the  banks  of  the  Mame  in  order  to  attempt  a  new  re- 
sistance. .  .  .  And  the  new  arrival  remained  without 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  invaders  who,  a  few  days 
before,  would  have  shot  him  on  the  slightest  suspicion. 

The  mechanical  workings  of  discipline  were  evidently 
out  of  gear.  Doctors  and  nurses  were  running  from  place 
to  place,  shouting  orders  and  breaking  out  into  a  volley 
of  curses  every  time  a  fresh  ambulance  load  arrived. 
The  drivers  were  commanded  to  take  their  patients  on 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         359 

ahead  to  another  hospital  near  the  rear-guard.  Orders 
had  been  received  to  evacuate  the  castle  that  very  night. 

In  spite  ot  this  prohibition,  one  of  the  ambulances 
unloaded  its  relay  of  wounded  men.  So  deplorable  was 
their  state  that  the  doctors  accepted  them,  judging  it  use- 
less for  them  to  continue  their  journey.  They  remained 
in  the  garden,  lying  on  the  same  stretchers  that  they  had 
occupied  within  the  vehicle.  By  the  light  of  the  lanterns 
Desnoyers  recognized  one  of  the  dying.  It  was  the  secre- 
tary to  His  Excellency,  the  Socialist  professor  who  had 
shut  him  in  the  cellar  vaults. 

At  the  sight  of  the  owner  of  the  castle  he  smiled  as 
though  he  had  met  a  comrade.  His  was  the  only  familiar 
face  among  all  those  people  who  were  speaking  his  lan- 
guage. He  was  ghastly  in  hue,  with  sunken  features  and 
an  impalpable  glaze  spreading  over  his  eyes.  He  had  no 
visible  wounds,  but  from  under  the  cloak  spread  over  his 
abdomen  his  torn  intestines  exhaled  a  fatal  warning.  The 
presence  of  Don  Marcelo  made  him  guess  where  they 
had  brought  him,  and  little  by  little  he  co-ordinated  his 
recollections.  As  though  the  old  gentleman  might  be 
interested  in  the  whereabouts  of  his  comrades,  he  told 
him  all  he  knew  in  a  weak  and  strained  voice.  .  .  .  Bad 
luck  for  their  brigade !  They  had  reached  the  front  at  a 
critical  moment  for  the  reserve  troops.  Commandant 
Blumhardt  had  died  at  the  very  first,  a  shell  from  a  "75" 
taking  off  his  head.  Dead,  too,  were  all  the  officers  who 
had  lodged  in  the  castle.  His  Excellency  had  had  his  jaw 
bone  torn  off  by  a  fragment  of  shell.  He  had  seen  him 
on  the  ground,  howling  with  pain,  drawing  a  portrait 
from  his  breast  and  tr\-ing  to  kiss  it  with  his  broken 
mouth.  He  had  himself  been  hit  in  the  stomach  by  the 
same  shell.  He  had  lain  forty-two  hours  on  the  field 
before  he  was  picked  up  by  the  ambulance  corps.  .  .  . 

And  with  the  mania  of  the  University  man,  whose 


360     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

hobby  is  to  see  everything  reasoned  out  and  logically 
explained,  he  added  in  that  supreme  moment,  with  the 
tenacity  of  those  who  die  talking : 

"Sad  war,  sir.  .  .  .  Many  premises  are  lacking  in  order 
to  decide  who  is  the  culpable  party.  .  .  .  When  the  war 
is  ended  they  will  have  to  .  .  .  will  have  to  .  .  ."  And  he 
closed  his  eyes  overcome  by  the  effort.  Desnoyers  left 
the  dead  man,  thinking  to  himself.  Poor  fellow!  He 
was  placing  the  hour  of  justice  at  the  termination  of  the 
war,  and  meanwhile  hundreds  like  him  were  dying,  dis- 
appearing with  all  their  scruples  of  ponderous  and  dis- 
ciplined reasoning. 

That  night  there  was  no  sleep  on  the  place.  The  walls 
of  the  lodge  were  creaking,  the  glass  crashing  and  break- 
ing, the  two  women  in  the  adjoining  room  crying  out 
nervously.  The  noise  of  the  German  fire  was  beginning 
to  mingle  with  that  of  other  explosives  close  at  hand.  He 
surmised  that  this  was  the  smashing  of  the  French 
projectiles  which  were  coming  in  search  of  the  enemy's 
artillery  above  the  Mame. 

For  a  few  minutes  his  hopes  revived  as  the  possibility 
of  victory  flashed  into  his  mind,  but  he  was  so  depressed 
by  his  forlorn  situation  that  such  a  hope  evaporated  as 
quickly  as  it  had  come.  His  own  troops  were  advancing, 
but  this  advance  did  not,  perhaps,  represent  more  than  a 
local  gain.  The  line  of  battle  was  so  extensive!  ...  It 
was  going  to  be  as  in  1870;  the  French  would  achieve 
partial  victories,  modified  at  the  last  moment  by  the 
strategy  of  the  enemies  until  they  were  turned  into  com- 
plete defeat. 

After  midnight  the  cannonading  ceased,  but  silence  was 
by  no  means  re-established.  Automobiles  were  rolling 
around  the  lodge  midst  hoarse  shouts  of  command.  It 
must  be  the  hospital  convoy  that  was  evacuating  the 
castle.  Then  near  daybreak  the  thudding  of  horses'  hoofs 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         361 

and  the  wheels  of  chugging  machines  thundered  through 
the  gates,  making  the  ground  tremble.  Half  an  hour 
afterwards  sounded  the  tramp  of  multitudes  moving  at 
a  quick  pace,  dying  away  in  the  depths  of  the  park. 

At  dawn  the  old  gentleman  leaped  from  his  bed,  and 
the  first  thing  he  spied  from  the  cottage  window  was  the 
flag  of  the  Red  Cross  still  floating  from  the  top  of  the 
castle.  There  were  no  more  cots  under  the  trees.  On  the 
bridge  he  met  one  of  the  doctors  and  several  assistants. 
The  hospital  force  had  gone  with  all  its  transportable 
patients.  There  only  remained  in  the  castle,  under  the 
care  of  a  company,  those  most  gravely  wounded.  The 
Valkyries  of  the  health  department  had  also  disappeared. 

The  red-bearded  Shylock  was  among  those  left  behind, 
and  on  seeing  Don  Marcelo  afar  off,  he  smiled  and 
immediately  vanished.  A  few  minutes  after  he  returned 
with  full  hands.  Never  before  had  he  been  so  generous. 
Foreseeing  pressing  necessity,  the  hungry  man  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  as  usual,  but  was  astonished  to  learn 
from  the  orderly's  emphatic  gestures  that  he  did  not  wish 
any  money. 

''Nein Neinr 

What  generosity  was  this!  .  .  .  The  German  persisted 
in  his  negatives.  His  enormous  mouth  expanded  in  an 
ingratiating  grin  as  he  laid  his  heavy  paws  on  Marcelo's 
shoulders.  He  appeared  like  a  good  dog,  a  meek  dog, 
fawning  and  licking  the  hands  of  the  passer-by,  coaxing 
to  be  taken  along  with  him.  "Fransosen.  .  .  .  Franzosen." 
He  did  not  know  how  to  say  any  more,  but  the  French- 
man read  in  his  words  the  desire  to  make  him  understand 
that  he  had  always  been  in  great  sympathy  with  the 
French.  Something  very  important  was  evidently  tran- 
spiring— the  ill-humored  air  of  those  left  behind  in  the 
castle,  and  the  sudden  servility  of  this  plowman  in  uni- 
form, made  it  very  apparent.  .  .  . 


362     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Some  distance  beyond  the  castle  he  saw  soldiers,  many 
soldiers.  A  battalion  of  infantry  had  spread  itself  along 
the  walls  with  trucks,  draught  horses  and  swift  mounts. 
With  their  pikes  the  soldiers  were  making  small  openings 
in  the  mud  walls,  shaping  them  into  a  border  of  little 
pinnacles.  Others  were  kneeling  or  sitting  near  the 
apertures,  taking  off  their  knapsacks  in  order  that  they 
might  be  less  hampered.  Afar  off  the  cannon  were 
booming,  and  in  the  intervals  between  their  detonations 
could  be  heard  the  bursting  of  shrapnel,  the  bubbling  of 
frying  oil,  the  grinding  of  a  coffee-mill,  and  the  incessant 
crackling  of  rifle-fire.  Fleecy  clouds  were  floating  over 
the  fields,  giving  to  near  objects  the  indefinite  lines  of 
unreality.  The  sun  was  a  faint  spot  seen  between  cur- 
tains of  mist.  The  trees  were  weeping  fog  moisture  from 
all  the  cracks  in  their  bark. 

A  thunderclap  rent  the  air  so  forcibly  that  it  seemed 
very  near  the  castle.  Desnoyers  trembled,  believing  that 
he  had  received  a  blow  in  the  chest.  The  other  men 
remained  impassive  with  their  customary  indifference.  A 
cannon  had  just  been  discharged  but  a  few  feet  away 
from  him,  and  not  till  then  did  he  realize  that  two  bat- 
teries had  been  installed  in  the  park.  The  pieces  of 
artillery  were  hidden  under  mounds  of  branches,  the 
gunners  having  felled  trees  in  order  to  mask  their  mon- 
sters more  perfectly.  He  saw  then  arranging  the  last; 
with  shovels,  they  were  forming  a  border  of  earth,  a 
foot  in  width,  around  each  piece.  This  border  guarded 
the  feet  of  the  operators  whose  bodies  were  protected  by 
steel  shields  on  both  sides  of  them.  Then  they  raised  a 
breastwork  of  trunks  and  boughs,  leaving  only  the  mouth 
of  the  cylindrical  mortar  visible. 

By  degrees  Don  Marcelo  became  accustomed  to  the 
firing  which  seemed  to  be  creating  a  vacuum  within  his 
cranium.    He  ground  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fists  at 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         363 

every  detonation,  but  stood  stock-still  with  no  desire  to 
leave,  dominated  by  the  violence  of  the  explosions,  ad- 
miring the  serenity  of  these  men  who  were  giving  orders, 
erect  and  coolly,  or  moving  like  humble  menials  around 
their  roaring  metal  beasts. 

All  his  ideas  seemed  to  have  been  snatched  away  by 
that  first  discharge  of  cannon.  His  brain  was  living  in 
the  present  moment  only.  He  turned  his  eyes  insistently 
toward  the  white  and  red  banner  which  was  waving  from 
the  mansion. 

"That  is  treachery,"  he  thought,  "a  breach  of  faith." 

Far  away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Marne,  the  French 
artillery  were  belching  forth  their  deadly  fire.  He  could 
imagine  their  handiwork  from  the  little  yellowish  clouds 
that  were  floating  in  the  air,  and  the  columns  of  smoke 
which  were  spouting  forth  at  various  points  of  the  land- 
scape where  the  German  troops  were  hidden,  forming  a 
line  which  appeared  to  lose  itself  in  infinity.  An 
atmosphere  of  protection  and  respect  seemed  to  be 
enveloping  the  castle. 

The  morning  mists  had  dissolved ;  the  sun  was  finally 
showing  its  bright  and  limpid  light,  lengthening  the 
shadows  of  men  and  trees  to  fantastic  dimensions.  Hills 
and  woods  came  forth  from  the  haze,  fresh  and  dripping 
after  their  morning  bath.  The  entire  valley  was  now 
completely  exposed,  and  Desnoyers  was  surprised  to  see 
the  river  from  the  spot  to  which  he  had  been  rooted — 
the  cannon  having  opened  great  windows  in  the  woods 
that  had  hid  it  from  view.  What  most  astonished  him  in 
looking  over  this  landscape,  smiling  and  lovely  in  the 
morning  light,  was  that  nobody  was  to  be  seen — abso- 
lutely nobody.  Mountain  tops  and  forests  were  bellowing 
without  anyone's  being  in  evidence.  There  must  be  more 
than  a  hundred  tliousand  men  in  the  space  swept  by  his 
piercing  gaze,  and  yet  not  a  human  being  was  visible. 


364    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

The  deadly  boom  of  arms  was  causing  the  air  to  vibrate 
without  leaving  any  optical  trace.  There  was  no  other 
smoke  but  that  of  the  explosions,  the  black  spirals  that 
were  flinging  their  great  shells  to  burst  on  the  ground. 
These  were  rising  on  all  sides,  encircling  the  castle  like 
a  ring  of  giant  tops,  but  not  one  of  that  orderly  circle 
ventured  to  touch  the  edifice.  Don  Marcelo  again  stared 
at  the  Red  Cross  flag.  "It  is  treachery !"  he  kept  repeat- 
ing; yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  selfishly  rejoicing  in  the 
base  expedient,  since  it  served  to  defend  his  property. 

The  battalion  was  at  last  completely  installed  the  entire 
length  of  the  wall,  opposite  the  river.  The  soldiers, 
kneeling,  were  supporting  their  guns  on  the  newly  made 
turrets  and  grooves,  and  seemed  satisfied  with  this  rest 
after  a  night  of  battling  retreat.  They  all  appeared  sleep- 
ing with  their  eyes  open.  Little  by  little  they  were  letting 
themselves  drop  back  on  their  heels,  or  seeking  the  sup- 
port of  their  knapsacks.  Snores  were  heard  in  the  brief 
spaces  between  the  artillery  fire.  The  officials  standing 
behind  them  were  examining  the  country  with  their  field 
glasses,  or  talking  in  knots.  Some  appeared  disheartened, 
others  furious  at  the  backward  flight  that  had  been  going 
on  since  the  day  before.  The  majority  appeared  calm, 
with  the  passivity  of  obedience.  The  battle  front  was 
immense;  who  could  foresee  the  outcome?  .  .  .  There 
they  were  in  full  retreat,  but  in  other  places,  perhaps, 
their  comrades  might  be  advancing  with  decided  gains. 
Until  the  very  last  moment,  no  soldier  knows  certainly 
the  fate  of  the  struggle.  What  was  most  grieving  this 
detachment  was  the  fact  that  it  was  all  the  time  getting 
further  away  from  Paris. 

Don  Marcelo's  eye  was  caught  by  a  sparkling  circle  of 
glass,  a  monocle  fixed  upon  him  with  aggressive  insist- 
ence. A  lank  lieutenant  with  the  corseted  waist  of  the 
officers  that  he  had  seen  in  Berlin,  a  genuine  Junker,  was 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         365 

a  few  feet  away,  sword  in  hand  behind  his  men,  like  a 
wrathful  and  glowering  shepherd. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  said  gruffly. 

Desnoyers  explained  that  he  was  the  owner  of  the 
castle.  "French?"  continued  the  lieutenant.  "Yes, 
French."  ,  .  .  The  official  scowled  in  hostile  meditation, 
feeling  the  necessity  of  saying  something  against  the 
enemy.  The  shouts  and  antics  of  his  companions-at- 
arms  put  a  summary  end  to  his  reflections.  They  were 
all  staring  upward,  and  the  old  man  followed  their  gaze. 

For  an  hour  past,  there  had  been  streaking  through 
the  air  frightful  roarings  enveloped  in  yellowish  vapors, 
strips  of  cloud  which  seemed  to  contain  wheels  revolving 
with  frenzied  rotation.  They  were  the  projectiles  of  the 
heavy  German  artillery  which,  fired  from  various  dis- 
tances, threw  their  great  shells  over  the  castle.  Certainly 
that  could  not  be  what  was  interesting  the  officials! 

He  half  shut  his  eyes  in  order  to  see  better,  and  finally 
near  the  edge  of  a  cloud  he  distinguished  a  species  of 
mosquito  flashing  in  the  sunlight.  Between  brief  intervals 
of  silence,  could  be  heard  the  distant,  faint  buzz  an- 
nouncing its  presence.  The  officers  nodded  their  heads. 
"Franzosen!"  Desnoyers  thought  so,  too.  He  could  not 
believe  that  the  enemy's  two  black  crosses  were  between 
those  wings.  Instead  he  saw  with  his  mind's  eye,  two 
tricolored  rings  like  the  circular  spots  which  color  the 
fluttering  wings  of  butterflies. 

This  explained  the  agitation  of  the  Germans.  The 
French  air-bird  remained  motionless  for  a  few  seconds 
over  the  castle,  regardless  of  the  white  bubbles  exploding 
underneath  and  around  it.  In  vain  the  cannon  nearest 
hurled  their  deadly  fire.  It  wheeled  rapidly,  and  returned 
to  the  place  from  which  it  came. 

"It  must  have  taken  in  the  whole  situation,"  thought 


366    FOtFR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  old  Frenchman,  "It  has  found  them  out;  it  knows 
what  is  going  on  here." 

He  guessed  rightly  that  this  information  would  swiftly 
change  the  course  of  events.  Everything  which  had  been 
happening  in  the  early  morning  hours  was  going  to  sink 
into  insignificance  compared  with  what  was  coming  now. 
He  shuddered  with  fear,  the  irresistible  fear  of  the  un- 
known, and  yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  filled  with 
curiosity,  impatience  and  nervous  dread  before  a  danger 
that  threatened  and  would  not  stay  its  relentless  course. 

Outside  the  park,  but  a  short  distance  from  the  mud 
wall,  sounded  a  strident  explosion  like  a  stupendous  blow 
from  a  gigantic  axe — an  axe  as  big  as  his  castle.  There 
began  flying  through  the  air  entire  treetops,  trunks  split 
in  two,  great  chunks  of  earth  with  the  vegetation  still 
clinging,  a  rain  of  dirt  that  obscured  the  heavens.  Some 
stones  fell  down  from  the  wall.  The  Germans  crouched 
but  with  no  visible  emotion.  They  knew  what  it  meant ; 
they  had  been  expecting  it  as  something  inevitable  after 
seeing  the  French  aeroplane.  The  Red  Cross  flag  could 
no  longer  deceive  the  enemy's  artillery. 

Don  Marcelo  had  not  time  to  recover  from  his  surprise 
before  there  came  a  second  explosion  nearer  the  mud 
wall  ...  a  third  inside  the  park.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  been  suddenly  flung  into  another  world  from  which 
he  was  seeing  men  and  things  across  a  fantastic  atmos- 
phere which  roared  and  rocked  and  destroyed  with  the 
violence  of  its  reverberations.  He  was  stunned  with  the 
awfulness  of  it  all,  and  yet  he  was  not  afraid.  Until 
then,  he  had  imagined  fear  in  a  very  diflferent  form.  He 
felt  an  agonizing  vacuum  in  his  stomach.  He  staggered 
violently  all  the  time,  as  though  some  force  were  pushing 
him  about,  giving  him  first  a  blow  on  the  chest,  and  then 
another  on  the  back  to  straighten  him  up. 

A  strong  smell  of  acids  penetrated  the  atmosphere, 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS         367 

making  respiration  very  difficult,  and  filling  his  eyes  with 
smarting  tears.  On  the  other  hand,  the  uproar  no  longer 
disturbed  him,  it  did  not  exist  for  him.  He  supposed  it 
was  still  going  on  from  the  trembling  air,  the  shaking 
of  things  around  him,  in  the  whirlwind  which  was  bend- 
ing men  double  but  was  not  reacting  within  his  body.  He 
had  lost  the  faculty  of  hearing;  all  the  strength  of  his 
senses  had  concentrated  themselves  in  looking.  His  eyes 
appeared  to  have  acquired  multiple  facets  like  those  of 
certain  insects.  He  saw  what  was  happening  before,  be- 
side, behind  him,  simultaneously  witnessing  extraordinary 
things  as  though  all  the  laws  of  life  had  been  capriciously 
overthrown. 

An  official  a  few  feet  away  suddenly  took  an  in- 
explicable flight.  He  began  to  rise  without  losing  his 
military  rigidity,  still  helmeted,  with  furrowed  brow, 
moustache  blond  and  short,  mustard-colored  chest,  and 
gloved  hands  still  holding  field-glasses  and  map — ^but 
there  his  individuality  stopped.  The  lower  extremities, 
in  their  grayish  leggings  remained  on  the  ground,  inani- 
mate as  reddening,  empty  moulds.  The  trunk,  in  its 
violent  ascent,  spread  its  contents  abroad  like  a  bursting 
rocket.  Further  on,  some  gunners,  standing  upright, 
were  suddenly  stretched  full  length,  converted  into  a 
motionless  row,  bathed  in  blood. 

The  line  of  infantry  was  lying  close  to  the  ground. 
The  men  had  huddled  themselves  together  near  the  loop- 
holes through  which  they  aimed  their  guns,  tr>'ing  to 
make  themselves  less  visible.  Many  had  placed  their 
knapsacks  over  their  heads  or  at  their  backs  to  defend 
themselves  from  the  flying  bits  of  shell.  H  they  moved 
at  all,  it  was  only  to  worm  their  way  further  into  the 
earth,  trying  to  hollow  it  out  with  their  stomachs.  Many 
of  them  had  changed  position  with  mysterious  rapidity, 
now  lying  stretched  on  their  backs  as  though  asleep. 


368    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

One  had  his  uniform  torn  open  across  the  abdomen, 
showing  between  the  rents  of  the  cloth,  slabs  of  flesh, 
blue  and  red  that  protruded  and  swelled  up  with  a  bub- 
bling expansion.  Another  had  his  legs  shot  away,  and 
was  looking  around  with  surprised  eyes  and  a  black 
mouth  rounded  into  an  effort  to  howl,  but  from  which  no 
sound  ever  came, 

Desnoyers  had  lost  all  notion  of  time.  He  could  not 
tell  whether  he  had  been  rooted  to  that  spot  for  many 
hours  or  for  a  single  moment.  The  only  thing  that 
caused  him  anxiety  was  the  persistent  trembling  of  his 
legs  which  were  refusing  to  sustain  him.  .  .  . 

Something  fell  behind  him.  It  was  raining  ruin.  Turn- 
ing his  head,  he  saw  his  castle  completely  transformed. 
Half  of  the  tower  had  just  been  carried  off.  The  pieces 
of  slate  were  scattered  everywhere  in  tiny  chips ;  the 
walls  were  crumbling;  loose  window  frames  were  bal- 
ancing on  edge  like  fragments  of  stage  scenery,  and  the 
old  wood  of  the  tower  hood  was  beginning  to  burn  like 
a  torch. 

The  spectacle  of  this  instantaneous  change  in  his  prop- 
erty impressed  him  more  than  the  ravages  of  death, 
making  him  realize  the  Cyclopean  power  of  the  blind, 
avenging  forces  raging  around  him.  The  vital  force  that 
had  been  concentrated  in  his  eyes,  now  spread  to  his 
feet  .  .  .  and  he  started  to  run  without  knowing  whither, 
feeling  the  same  necessity  to  hide  himself  as  had  those 
men  enchained  by  discipline  who  were  trying  to  flatten 
themselves  into  the  earth  in  imitation  of  the  reptile's 
pliant  invisibility. 

His  instinct  was  pushing  him  toward  the  lodge,  but 
half  way  up  the  avenue,  he  was  stopped  by  another  lot  of 
astounding  transformations.  An  unseen  hand  had  just 
snatched  away  half  of  the  cottage  roof.  The  entire  side 
wall  doubled  over,  forming  a  cascade  of  bricks  and  dust 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      369 

The  interior  rooms  were  now  exposed  to  view  like  a 
theatrical  setting — the  kitchen  where  he  had  eaten,  the 
upper  floor  with  the  room  in  which  he  descried  his  still 
unmade  bed.     The  poor  women !  .  .  . 

He  turned  around,  running  now  toward  the  castle,  try- 
ing to  make  the  sub-cellar  in  which  he  had  been  fastened 
for  the  night;  and  when  he  finally  found  himself  under 
those  dusty  cobwebs,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  in  the 
most  luxurious  salon,  and  he  devoutly  blessed  the  good 
workmanship  of  the  castle  builders. 

The  subterranean  silence  began  gradually  to  bring  back 
his  sense  of  hearing.  The  cannonading  of  the  Germans 
and  the  bursting  of  the  French  shells  sounded  from  his 
retreat  like  a  distant  tempest.  There  came  into  his  mind 
the  eulogies  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  lavish  upon 
the  seventy-fives  without  knowing  anything  about  it  ex- 
cept by  hearsay.  Now  he  had  witnessed  its  effects.  *Tt 
shoots  too  well !"  he  muttered.  In  a  short  time  it  would 
finish  destroying  his  castle — he  was  finding  such  perfec- 
tion excessive. 

But  he  soon  repented  of  these  selfish  lamentations.  An 
idea,  tenacious  as  remorse,  had  fastened  itself  in  his 
brain.  It  now  seemed  to  him  that  all  he  was  passing 
through  was  an  expiation  for  the  great  mistake  of  his 
youth.  He  had  evaded  the  service  of  his  country,  and 
now  he  was  enveloped  in  all  the  horrors  of  war,  with  the 
humiHation  of  a  passive  and  defenseless  being,  without 
any  of  the  soldier's  satisfaction  of  being  able  to  return 
the  blows.  He  was  going  to  die — he  was  sure  of  that — 
but  a  shameful  death,  unknown  and  inglorious.  The 
ruins  of  his  mansion  were  going  to  become  his  sepulchre. 
.  .  .  And  the  certainty  of  dying  there  in  the  darkness,  like 
a  rat  that  sees  the  openings  of  his  hole  being  closed  up, 
made  this  refuge  intolerable. 

Above  him  the  tornado  was  still  raging.     A  peal  like 


370     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

thunder  boomed  above  his  head,  and  then  came  the  crash 
of  a  landslide.  Another  projectile  must  have  fallen  upon 
the  building.  He  heard  shrieks  of  agony,  yells  and  pre- 
cipitous steps  on  the  floor  above  him.  Perhaps  the  shell, 
in  its  blind  fury,  had  blown  to  pieces  many  of  the  dying 
in  the  salons. 

Fearing  to  remain  buried  in  his  retreat,  he  bounded  up 
the  cellar  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time.  As  he  scudded  across 
the  first  floor,  he  saw  the  sky  through  the  shattered  roofs. 
Along  the  edges  were  hanging  sections  of  wood,  frag- 
ments of  swinging  tile  and  furniture  stopped  halfway  in 
its  flight.  Crossing  the  hall,  he  had  to  clamber  over 
much  rubbish.  He  stumbled  over  broken  and  twisted 
iron,  parts  of  beds  rained  from  the  upper  rooms  into  the 
mountain  of  debris  in  which  he  saw  convulsed  limbs  and 
heard  anguished  voices  that  he  could  not  understand. 

He  leaped  as  he  ran,  feeling  the  same  longing  for  light 
and  free  air  as  those  who  rush  from  the  hold  to  the  deck 
of  a  shipwreck.  While  sheltered  in  the  darkness  more 
time  had  elapsed  than  he  had  supposed.  The  sun  was 
now  very  high.  He  saw  in  the  garden  more  corpses 
in  tragic  and  grotesque  postures.  The  wounded  were 
doubled  over  with  pain  or  lying  on  the  ground  or  prop- 
ping themselves  against  the  trees  in  painful  silence.  Some 
had  opened  their  knapsacks  and  drawn  out  their  sanitary 
kits  and  were  trying  to  care  for  their  cuts.  The  infantry 
was  now  firing  incessantly.  The  number  of  riflemen  had 
increased.  New  bands  of  soldiers  were  entering  the 
park — some  with  a  sergeant  at  their  head,  others  fol- 
lowed by  an  officer  carrying  a  revolver  at  his  breast  as 
though  guiding  his  men  with  it.  This  must  be  the  in- 
fantry expelled  from  their  position  near  the  river  which 
had  come  to  reinforce  the  second  line  of  defense.  The 
mitrailleuses  were  adding  their  tac-tac  to  the  cracks  of 
the  fusileers. 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      37i 

The  hum  of  the  invisible  swarms  was  buzzing  inces- 
santly. Thousands  of  sticky  horse-flies  were  droning 
around  Desnoyers  without  his  even  seeing  them.  The 
bark  of  the  trees  was  being  stripped  by  unseen  hands; 
the  leaves  were  falling  in  torrents;  the  boughs  were 
shaken  by  opposing  forces,  the  stones  on  the  ground  were 
being  crushed  by  a  mysterious  foot.  All  inanimate  objects 
seemed  to  have  acquired  a  fantastic  life.  The  zinc  spoons 
of  the  soldiers,  the  metallic  parts  of  their  outfit,  the  pails 
of  the  artillery  were  all  clanking  as  though  in  an  imper- 
ceptible hailstorm.  He  saw  a  cannon  lying  on  its  side 
with  the  wheels  broken  and  turned  over  among  many 
men  who  appeared  asleep ;  he  saw  soldiers  who  stretched 
themselves  out  without  a  contraction,  without  a  sound, 
as  though  overcome  by  sudden  drowsiness.  Others  were 
howling  and  dragging  themselves  forward  in  a  sitting 
position. 

The  old  man  felt  an  extreme  sensation  of  heat.  The 
pungent  perfume  of  explosive  drugs  brought  the  tears 
to  his  eyes  and  clawed  at  his  throat.  At  the  same  time 
he  was  chilly  and  felt  his  forehead  freezing  in  a  glacial 
sweat. 

He  had  to  leave  the  bridge.  Several  soldiers  were 
passing  bearing  the  wounded  to  the  edifice  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  falling  in  ruins.  Suddenly  he  was 
sprinkled  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  the  earth  had  opened 
to  make  way  for  a  water-spout.  A  shell  had  fallen  into 
the  moat,  throwing  up  an  enormous  column  of  water, 
making  the  carp  sleeping  in  the  mud  fly  into  fragments, 
breaking  a  part  of  the  edges  and  grinding  to  powder  the 
white  balustrades  with  their  great  urns  of  flowers. 

He  started  to  run  on  with  the  blindness  of  terror,  whefi 
he  suddenly  saw  before  him  the  same  little  round  crystal, 
examining  him  coolly.  It  was  the  Junker,  the  officer  of 
the  monocle.  .  .  .  With  the  end  of  his  revolver,  the  Ger- 


372     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

man  pointed  to  two  pails  a  short  distance  away,  ordering 
Desnoyers  to  fill  them  from  the  lagoon  and  give  the 
water  to  the  men  overcome  by  the  sun.  Although  the 
imperious  tone  admitted  of  no  reply,  Don  Marcelo  tried, 
nevertheless,  to  resist.  He  received  a  blow  from  the 
revolver  on  his  chest  at  the  same  time  that  the  lieutenant 
slapped  him  in  the  face.  The  old  man  doubled  over, 
longing  to  weep,  longing  to  perish;  but  no  tears  came, 
nor  did  life  escape  from  his  body  under  this  affront,  as 
he  wished.  .  .  .  With  the  two  buckets  in  his  hands,  he 
found  himself  dipping  up  water  from  the  canal,  carrying 
it  the  length  of  the  file,  giving  it  to  men  who,  each  in  his 
turn,  dropped  his  gun  to  gulp  the  liquid  with  the  avidity 
of  panting  beasts. 

He  was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  shrill  shrieks  of  in- 
visible bodies.  His  one  great  longing  was  to  die.  He  was 
strongly  convinced  that  he  was  going  to  die ;  his  suffer- 
ings were  too  great ;  there  was  no  longer  any  place  in  the 
world  for  him. 

He  had  to  pass  by  breaches  opened  in  the  wall  by  the 
bursting  shells.  There  was  no  natural  object  to  arrest 
the  eye  looking  through  these  gaps.  Hedges  and  groves 
had  been  swept  away  or  blotted  out  by  the  fire  of  the 
artillery.  He  descried  at  the  foot  of  the  highway  near 
his  castle,  several  of  the  attacking  columns  which  had 
crossed  the  Marne.  The  advancing  forces  were  coming 
doggedly  on,  apparently  unmoved  by  the  steady,  deadly 
fire  of  the  Germans.  Soon  they  were  rushing  forward 
with  leaps  and  bounds,  by  companies,  shielding  them- 
selves behind  bits  of  upland  in  bends  of  the  road,  in 
order  to  send  forth  their  blasts  of  death. 

The  old  man  was  now  fired  with  a  desperate  resolu- 
tion ; — since  he  had  to  die,  let  a  French  ball  kill  him ! 
And  he  advanced  very  erect  with  his  two  pails  among 
Uiose  men  shooting,  lying  down.     Then,  with  a  sudden 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      373 

fear,  he  stood  still  hanging  his  head;  a  second  thought 
had  told  him  that  the  bullet  which  he  might  receive 
would  be  one  danger  less  for  the  enemy.  It  would  be 
better  for  them  to  kill  the  Germans  .  .  .  and  he  began  to 
cherish  the  hope  that  he  might  get  possession  of  some 
weapon  from  those  dying  around  him,  and  fall  upon  that 
Junker  who  had  struck  him. 

He  was  filling  his  pails  for  the  third  time,  and  murder- 
ously contemplating  the  lieutenant's  back  when  some- 
thing occurred  so  absurd  and  unnatural  that  it  reminded 
him  of  the  fantastic  flash  of  the  cinematograph ; — the 
officer's  head  suddenly  disappeared;  two  jets  of  blood 
spurted  from  his  severed  neck  and  his  body  collapsed 
like  an  empty  sack. 

At  the  same  time  a  cyclone  was  sweeping  the  length  of 
the  wall,  tearing  up  groves,  overturning  cannon  and 
carrying  away  people  in  a  whirlwind  as  though  they  were 
dry  leaves.  He  inferred  that  Death  was  now  blowing 
from  another  direction.  Until  then,  it  had  come  from 
the  front  on  the  river  side,  battling  with  the  enemy's  line 
ensconced  behind  the  walls.  Now,  with  the  swiftness  of 
an  atmospheric  change,  it  was  blustering  from  the  depths 
of  the  park.  A  skillful  manoeuvre  of  the  aggressors,  the 
use  of  a  distant  road,  a  chance  bend  in  the  German  line 
had  enabled  the  French  to  collect  their  cannon  in  a  new 
position,  attacking  the  occupants  of  the  castle  with  a 
flank  movement. 

It  was  a  lucky  thing  for  Don  Marcelo  that  he  had 
lingered  a  few  moments  on  the  bank  of  the  fosse,  shel- 
tered by  the  bulk  of  the  edifice.  The  fire  of  the  hidden 
battery'  passed  the  length  of  the  avenue,  carrying  off  the 
living,  destroying  for  a  second  time  the  dead,  killing 
horses,  breaking  the  wheels  of  vehicles  and  making  the 
gun  carriages  fly  through  the  air  with  the  flames  of  a 
volcano  in  whose  red  and  bluish  depths  black  bodies 


374    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

were  leaping.  He  saw  hundreds  of  fallen  men ;  he  saw 
disembowelled  horses  trampling  on  their  entrails.  The 
death  harvest  was  not  being  reaped  in  sheaves ;  the  entire 
field  was  being  mowed  down  with  a  single  flash  of  the 
sickle.  And  as  though  the  batteries  opposite  divined  the 
catastrophe,  they  redoubled  their  fire,  sending  down  a 
torrent  of  shells.  They  fell  on  all  sides.  Beyond  the 
castle,  at  the  end  of  the  park,  craters  were  opening  in  the 
woods,  vomiting  forth  the  entire  trunks  of  trees.  The 
projectiles  were  hurling  from  their  pits  the  bodies  in- 
terred the  night  before. 

Those  still  alive  were  firing  through  the  gaps  in  the 
walls.  Then  they  sprang  up  with  the  greatest  haste. 
Some  grasped  their  bayonets,  pale,  with  clamped  lips  and 
a  mad  glare  in  their  eyes ;  others  turned  their  backs,  run- 
ning toward  the  exit  from  the  park,  regardless  of  the 
shouts  of  their  officers  and  the  revolver  shots  sent  after 
the  fugitives. 

All  this  occurred  with  dizzying  rapidity,  like  a  night- 
mare. On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  came  a  murmur, 
swelling  in  volume,  like  that  of  the  sea.  Desnoyers  heard 
shouts,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  some  hoarse,  discord- 
ant voices  were  singing  the  Marseillaise.  The  machine- 
guns  were  working  with  the  swift  steadiness  of  sewing 
machines.  The  attack  was  going  to  be  opposed  with 
furious  resistance.  The  Germans,  crazed  with  fury, 
shot  and  shot.  In  one  of  the  breaches  appeared  a  red 
kepis  followed  by  legs  of  the  same  color  trying  to 
clamber  over  the  ruins.  But  this  vision  was  instantly 
blotted  out  by  the  sprinkling  from  the  machine  guns, 
making  the  invaders  fall  in  great  heaps  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall.  Don  Marcelo  never  knew  exactly  how  the 
change  took  place.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  red  trousers 
within  the  park.  With  irresistible  bounds  they  were 
springing  over  the  wall,  slipping  through  the  yawning 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      375 

gaps,  and  darting  out  from  the  depths  of  the  woods  by 
invisible  paths.  They  were  Httle  soldiers,  husky,  panting, 
perspiring,  with  towi  cloaks ;  and  mingled  with  them,  in 
the  disorder  of  the  charge,  African  marksmen  with  devil- 
ish eyes  and  foaming  mouths,  Zouaves  in  wide  breeches 
and  chasseurs  in  blue  uniforms. 

The  German  officers  wanted  to  die.  With  upraised 
swords,  after  having  exhausted  the  shots  in  their  re- 
volvers, they  advanced  upon  their  assailants  followed  by 
the  soldiers  who  still  obeyed  them.  There  was  a  scuffle, 
a  wild  melee.  To  the  trembling  spectator,  it  seemed  as 
though  the  world  had  fallen  into  profound  silence.  The 
yells  of  the  combatants,  the  thud  of  colliding  bodies,  the 
clang  of  arms  seemed  as  nothing  after  the  cannon  had 
quieted  down.  He  saw  men  pierced  through  the  middle 
by  gun  points  whose  reddened  ends  came  out  through 
their  kidneys ;  muskets  raining  hammer-like  blows,  ad- 
versaries that  grappled  in  hand-to-hand  tussles,  rolling 
over  and  over  on  the  ground,  trying  to  gain  the  advantage 
by  kicks  and  bites. 

The  mustard-colored  fronts  had  entirely  disappeared, 
and  he  now  saw  only  backs  of  that  color  fleeing  toward 
the  exit,  filtering  among  the  trees,  falling  midway  in  their 
flight  when  hit  by  the  pursuing  balls.  Many  of  the  in- 
vaders were  unable  to  chase  the  fugitives  because  they 
were  occupied  in  repelling  with  rude  thrusts  of  their 
bayonets  the  bodies  falling  upon  them  in  agonizing 
convulsions. 

Don  Marcelo  suddenly  found  himself  in  the  very  thick 
of  these  mortal  combats,  jumping  up  and  down  like  a 
child,  waving  his  hands  and  shouting  with  all  his  might. 
When  he  came  to  himself  again,  he  was  hugging  the 
grimy  head  of  a  young  French  officer  who  was  looking 
at  him  in  astonishment.  He  probably  thought  him  crazy 
on  receiving  his  kisses,  on  hearing  his  incoherent  torrent 


376    FOUR  H0RSEME5:  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

of  words.  Emotionally  exhausted,  the  worn  old  man 
continued  to  weep  after  the  officer  had  freed  himself  with 
a  jerk.  .  .  .  He  needed  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings 
after  so  many  days  of  anguished  self-control.  Vive  la 
France!  .  .  . 

His  beloved  French  were  already  within  the  park  gates. 
They  were  running,  bayonets  in  hand,  in  pursuit  of  the 
last  remnants  of  the  German  battalion  trying  to  escape 
toward  the  village.  A  group  of  horsemen  passed  along 
the  road.  They  were  dragoons  coming  to  complete  the 
rout.  But  their  horses  were  fagged  out ;  nothing  but  the 
fever  of  victory  transmitted  from  man  to  beast  had 
sustained  their  painful  pace.  One  of  the  equestrians 
came  to  a  stop  near  the  entrance  of  the  park,  the  fam- 
ished hoTsc  eagerly  devouring  the  herbage  while  his  rider 
settled  down  in  the  saddle  as  though  asleep.  Desnoyers 
touched  him  on  the  hip  in  order  to  waken  him,  but  he 
immediately  rolled  off  on  the  opposite  side.  He  was 
dead,  with  his  entrails  protruding  from  his  body,  but 
swept  on  with  the  others,  he  had  been  brought  thus  far 
on  his  steady  steed. 

Enormous  tops  of  iron  and  smoke  now  began  falling 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  German  artillery  was  opening 
a  retaliatOTy  fire  against  its  lost  positions.  The  advance 
continued.  There  passed  toward  the  North  battalions, 
squadrons  and  batteries,  worn,  weary  and  grimy,  covered 
with  dust  and  mud,  but  kindled  with  an  ardor  that  gal- 
vanized their  flagging  energ)'. 

The  French  cannon  began  thundering  on  the  village 
side.  Bands  of  soldiers  were  exploring  the  castle  and 
the  nearest  woods.  From  the  ruined  rooms,  from  the 
depths  of  the  cellars,  from  the  clumps  of  shrubbery  in 
the  park,  from  the  stables  and  burned  garage,  came  surg- 
ing forth  men  dressed  in  greenish  gray  and  pointed 
helmets.    They  all  threw  up  their  arms,  extending  thtir 


THE  BANNER  OF  T:HE  RED  CROSS      377 

open  hands: — "Kamarades  .  .  .  kamarades,  non  kaput." 
With  the  restlessness  of  remorse,  they  were  in  dread  of 
immediate  execution.  They  had  suddenly  lost  all  their 
haughtiness  on  finding  that  they  no  longer  had  any  official 
powers  and  were  free  from  discipline.  Some  of  those 
who  knew  a  little  French,  spoke  of  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren, in  order  to  soften  the  enemies  that  were  threatening 
them  with  their  bayonets.  A  brawny  Teuton  came  up  to 
Desnoyers  and  clapped  him  on  the  back.  It  was  Red- 
beard.  He  pressed  his  heart  and  then  pointed  to  the 
owner  of  the  castle.  "Framosen  .  .  .  great  friend  of  the 
Framosen"  .  .  .  and  he  grinned  ingratiatingly  at  his  pro- 
tector. 

Don  Marcelo  remained  at  the  castle  until  the  following 
morning,  and  was  astounded  to  see  Georgette  and  her 
mother  emerge  unexpectedly  from  the  depths  of  the 
ruined  lodge.  They  were  weeping  at  the  sight  of  the 
French  uniforms. 

"It  could  not  go  on,"  sobbed  the  widow.  "God  does 
not  die." 

After  a  bad  night  among  the  ruins,  the  owner  decided 
to  leave  Villeblanche.  What  was  there  for  him  to  do 
now  in  the  destroyed  castle?  .  .  .  The  presence  of  so 
many  dead  was  racking  his  nerves.  There  were  hun- 
dreds, there  were  thousands.  The  soldiers  and  the 
farmers  were  interring  great  heaps  of  them  wherever  he 
went,  digging  burial  trenches  close  to  the  castle,  in  all 
the  avenues  of  the  park,  in  the  garden  paths,  around  the 
outbuildings.  Even  the  depths  of  the  circular  lagoon 
were  filled  with  corpses.  How  could  he  ever  live  again  in 
that  tragic  community  composed  mostly  of  his  enemies? 
.  .  .  Farewell  forever,  castle  of  Villeblanche! 

He  turned  his  steps  toward  Paris,  planning  to  get  there; 
the  best  way  he  could.  He  came  upon  corpses  every- 
where, but  they  were  not  all  the  gray-green  uniform. 


378     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Many  of  his  countrymen  had  fallen  in  the  gallant  offen- 
sive. Many  would  still  fall  in  the  last  throes  of  the 
battle  that  was  going  on  behind  them,  agitating  the 
horizon  with  its  incessant  uproar.  Everywhere  red 
pantaloons  were  sticking  up  out  of  the  stubble,  hobnailed 
boots  glistening  in  upright  position  near  the  roadside, 
livid  heads,  amputated  bodies,  stray  limbs — and,  scat- 
tered through  this  funereal  medley,  red  kepis  and 
Oriental  caps,  helmets  with  tufts  of  horse  hair,  twisted 
swords,  broken  bayonets,  guns  and  great  mounds  of 
cannon  cartridges.  Dead  horses  were  strewing  the  plain 
with  their  swollen  carcasses.  Artillery  wagons  with  their 
charred  wood  and  bent  iron  frames  revealed  the  tragic 
moment  of  the  explosion.  Rectangles  of  overturned 
earth  marked  the  situation  of  the  enemy's  batteries  be- 
fore their  retreat.  Amidst  the  broken  cannons  and  trucks 
were  cones  of  carbonized  material,  the  remains  of  men 
and  horses  burned  by  the  Germans  on  the  night  before 
their  withdrawal. 

In  spite  of  these  barbarian  holocausts  corpses  were 
everywhere  in  infinite  numbers.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
end  to  their  number;  it  seemed  as  though  the  earth  had 
expelled  all  the  bodies  that  it  had  received  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world.  The  sun  was  impassively  flooding 
the  fields  of  death  with  its  waves  of  light.  In  its  yellowish 
glow,  the  pieces  of  the  bayonets,  the  metal  plates,  the 
fittings  of  the  guns  were  sparkling  like  bits  of  crystal. 
The  damp  night,  the  rain,  the  rust  of  time  had  not  yet 
modified  with  their  dorrosive  action  these  relics  of 
combat. 

But  decomposition  had  begun  to  set  in.  Graveyard 
odors  were  all  along  the  road,  increasing  in  intensity  as 
Desnoyers  plodded  on  toward  Paris.  Every  half  hour, 
the  evidence  of  corruption  became  more  pronounced — 
many  of  the  dead  on  this  side  of  the  river  having  lain 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      379 

there  for  three  or  four  days.  Bands  of  crows,  at  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps,  rose  up,  lazily  flapping  their 
wings,  but  returning  soon  to  blacken  the  earth,  surfeited 
but  not  satisfied,  having  lost  all  fear  of  mankind. 

From  time  to  time,  the  sad  pedestrian  met  living  bands 
of  men — platoons  of  cavalry,  gendarmes,  Zouaves  and 
chasseurs  encamped  around  the  ruined  farmsteads,  ex- 
ploring the  country  in  pursuit  of  German  fugitives. 
Don  Marcelo  had  to  explain  his  business  there,  showing 
the  passport  that  Lacour  had  given  him  in  order  to  make 
his  trip  on  the  military  train.  Only  in  this  way  could  he 
continue  his  journey.  These  soldiers — many  of  them 
slightly  wounded — were  still  stimulated  by  victory. 
They  were  laughing,  telling  stories,  and  narrating  the 
great  dangers  which  they  had  escaped  a  few  days  before, 
always  ending  with,  "We  are  going  to  kick  them  across 
the  frontier!"  .  .  . 

Their  indignation  broke  forth  afresh  as  they  looked 
around  at  the  blasted  towns — farms  and  single  houses, 
all  burned.  Like  skeletons  of  prehistoric  beasts,  many 
steel  frames  twisted  by  the  flames  were  scattered  over 
the  plains.  The  brick  chimneys  of  the  factories  were 
either  leveled  to  the  ground  or,  pierced  with  the  round 
holes  made  by  shells,  were  standing  up  like  giant  pastoral 
flutes  forced  into  the  earth. 

Near  the  ruined  villages,  the  women  were  removing 
the  earth  and  trying  to  dig  burial  trenches,  but  their 
labor  was  almost  useless  because  it  required  an  immense 
force  to  inter  so  many  dead.  "We  are  all  going  to  die 
after  gaining  the  victory,"  mused  the  old  man.  "The 
plague  is  going  to  break  out  among  us." 

The  water  of  the  river  must  also  be  contaminated  bj 
this  contagion ;  so  when  his  thirst  became  intolerable  h< 
drank,  in  preference,  from  a  nearby  pond.  .  .  .  But 
alas,  on  raising  his  head,  he  saw  some  greenish  legs  or 


38o     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  surface  of  the  shallow  water,  the  boots  sunk  in  the 
muddy  banks.  The  head  of  the  German  was  in  the 
depths  of  the  pool. 

He  had  been  trudging  on  for  several  hours  when  he 
stopped  before  a  ruined  house  which  he  believed  that 
h«  recognized.  Yes,  it  was  the  tavern  where  he  had 
lunched  a  few  days  ago  on  his  way  to  the  castle.  He 
forced  his  way  in  among  the  blackened  walls  where 
a  persistent  swarm  of  flies  came  buzzing  around  him. 
The  smell  of  decomposing  flesh  attracted  his  attention;  a 
leg  which  looked  like  a  piece  of  charred  cardboard  was 
wedged  in  the  ruins.  Looking  at  it  bitterly  he  seemed 
to  hear  again  the  old  woman  with  her  grandchildren 
clinging  to  her  skirts — "Monsieur,  why  are  the  people 
fleeing?  War  only  concerns  the  soldiers.  We  country- 
folk have  done  no  wrong  to  anybody,  and  we  ought  not 
to  be  afraid."  - 

Half  an  hour  later,  on  descending  a  hilly  path,  the 
traveller  had  the  most  unexpected  of  encounters.  He 
saw  there  a  taxicab,  an  automobile  from  Paris.  The 
chauffeur  was  walking  tranquilly  around  the  vehicle  as 
if  it  were  at  the  cab  stand,  and  he  promptly  entered  into 
conversation  with  this  gentleman  who  appeared  to  him 
as  downcast  and  dirty  as  a  tramp,  with  half  of  his  livid 
face  discolored  from  a  blow.  He  had  brought  out  here 
in  his  machine  some  Parisians  who  had  wanted  to  see 
the  battlefield ;  they  were  reporters ;  and  he  was  wait- 
ing there  to  take  them  back  at  nightfall. 

Don  Marcelo  buried  his  right  hand  in  his  pocket. 
Two  hundred  francs  if  the  man  would  drive  him  to 
Paris.  The  chauffeur  declined  with  the  gravity  of  a  man 
faithful  to  his  obligations.  .  .  .  "Five  hundred?"  .  .  . 
and  he  showed  his  fist  bulging  with  gold  coins.  The 
man's  only  response  was  a  twirl  of  the  handle  which 
started  the  machine  to  snorting,  and  away  they  sped 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      381 

There  was  not  a  battle  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris 
every  day  in  the  year !     His  other  clients  could  just  wait. 

And  settHng  back  into  the  motor-car,  Desnoyers  saw 
the  horrors  of  the  battle  field  flying  past  at  a  dizzying 
speed  and  disappearing  behind  him.  Pie  was  rolling 
toward  human  life  ...  he  was  returning  to  civilization  I 

As  they  came  into  Paris,  the  nearly  empty  streets 
seemed  to  him  to  be  crowded  with  people.  Never  had 
he  seen  the  city  so  beautiful.  He  whirled  through  the 
avenue  de  I'Opera  whizzed  past  the  place  de  la  Con- 
corde, and  thought  he  must  be  dreaming  as  he  realized 
the  gigantic  leap  that  he  had  taken  within  the  hour.  He 
compared  all  that  was  now  around  him  with  the  sights 
on  that  plain  of  death  but  a  few  miles  away.  No;  no, 
it  was  not^  possible.  One  of  the  extremes  of  this  con- 
trast must  certainly  be  false! 

The  automobile  was  beginning  to  slow  down ;  he  must 
be  now  in  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo.  .  .  .  He  couldn't 
wake  up.     Was  that  really  his  home?  .  .  . 

The  majestic  concierge,  unable  to  understand  his  for- 
lorn appearance,  greeted  him  with  amazed  consternation. 
"Ah  Monsieur!  .  .  .  Where  has  Monsieur  been?"  .  .  . 

"In  hell !"  muttered  Don  Marcelo. 

His  wonderment  continued  when  he  found  himself 
actually  in  his  own  apartment,  going  through  its  various 
rooms.  He  was  somebody  once  more.  The  sight  of 
the  fruits  of  his  riches  and  the  enjoyment  of  home  com- 
forts restored  his  self-respect  at  the  same  time  that 
the  contrast  recalled  to  his  mind  the  recollection  of  all 
the  humiliations  and  outrages  that  he  had  suffered.  .  .  . 
Ah,  the  scoundrels!  .  .  . 

Two  mornings  later,  the  door  bell  rang.     A  visitor! 

There  came  toward  him  a  soldier — a  little  soldier  of 
the  infantry,  timid,  with  his  kepis  in  his  hand,  stuttering 
excuses  in  Spanish : — 


382     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSB 

'"I  knew  that  you  were  here  ...  I  come  to  .  .  .'* 

That  voice?  .  .  .  Dragging  him  from  the  dark  hall- 
way, Don  Marcelo  conducted  him  to  the  balcony.  .  .  . 
How  handsome  he  looked!  .  .  .  The  kepis  was  red,  but 
darkened  with  wear;  the  cloak,  too  large,  was  torn  and 
darned;  the  great  shoes  had  a  strong  smell  of  leather. 
Yet  never  had  his  son  appeared  to  him  so  elegant,  so 
distinguished-looking  as  now,  fitted  out  in  these  rough 
ready-made  clothes. 

"You!  .  .  .    You!  .  .  ." 

The  father  embraced  him  convulsively,  crying  like  a 
child,  and  trembling  so  that  he  could  no  longer  stand. 

He  had  always  hoped  that  they  would  finally  under- 
stand each  other.  His  blood  was  coursing  through  the 
boy's  veins;  he  was  good,  with  no  other  defect  than  a 
certain  obstinacy.  He  was  excusing  him  now  for  all 
the  past,  blaming  himself  for  a  great  part  of  it.  He 
had  been  too  hard. 

"You  a  soldier!"  he  kept  exclaiming  over  and  over. 
"You  defending  my  country,  when  it  is  not  yours !"  .  .  . 

And  he  kissed  him  again,  receding  a  few  steps  so  as 
to  get  a  better  look  at  him.  Deciderly  he  was  more 
fascinating  now  in  his  grotesque  uniform,  than  when 
he  was  so  celebrated  for  his  skill  as  a  dancer  and 
idolized  by  the  women. 

When  the  delighted  father  was  finally  able  to  control 
his  emotion,  his  eyes,  still  filled  with  tears,  glowed  with 
a  malignant  light.  A  spasm  of  hatred  furrowed  his 
face. 

"Go,"  he  said  simply.  "You  do  not  know  what  war 
is ;  I  have  just  come  from  it ;  I  have  seen  it  close  by. 
This  is  not  a  war  like  other  wars,  with  rational  enemies. 
it  is  a  hunt  of  wild  beasts.  .  .  .  Shoot  without  a  scruple 
against  them  all.  .  .  .  Every  one  that  you  overcome, 
rids  humanity  of  a  dangerous  menace." 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  RED  CROSS      383 

He  hesitated  a  few  seconds,  and  then  added  with 
tragic  calm : 

"Perhaps  you  may  encounter  familiar  faces.  Family 
ties  are  not  always  formed  to  our  tastes.  Men  of  your 
blood  are  on  the  other  side.  If  you  see  any  one  of  them 
...  do  not  hesitate.  Shoot!  He  is  your  enemy.  Kill 
him!  .  .  ,    Kill  him!" 


PART  in 


CHAPTER  I 

AFTER  THE  MARNE 

At  the  end  of  October,  the  Desnoyers  family  returned 
to  Paris.  Dona  Luisa  could  no  longer  live  in  Biarritz, 
so  far  from  her  husband.  In  vain  la  Romantica  dis' 
coursed  on  the  dangers  of  a  return.  The  Government 
was  still  in  Bordeaux,  the  President  of  the  Republic  and 
the  Ministry  making  only  the  most  hurried  apparitions 
in  the  Capital.  The  course  of  the  war  might  change 
at  any  minute;  that  little  affair  of  the  Marne  was  but 
a  momentary  relief.  .  .  .  But  the  good  seiiora,  after 
having  read  Don  Marcelo's  letters,  opposed  an  adaman- 
tine will  to  all  contrary  suggestions.  Besides,  she  was 
thinking  of  her  son,  her  Julio,  now  a  soldier.  .  .  .  She 
believed  that,  by  returning  to  Paris,  she  might  in  some 
ways  be  more  in  touch  with  him  than  at  this  seaside 
resort  near  the  Spanish  frontier. 

Chichi  also  wished  to  return  because  Rene  was  now 
filling  the  greater  part  of  her  thoughts.  Absence  had 
shown  her  that  she  was  really  in  love  with  him.  Such 
a  long  time  without  seeing  her  little  sugar  soldier!  .  .  . 
So  the  family  abandoned  their  hotel  life  and  returned 
to  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo. 

Since  the  shock  of  the  first  September  days,  Paris 
had  been  gradually  changing  its  aspect.  The  nearly  two 
million  inhabitants  who  had  been  living  quietly  in  their 
homes  without  letting  themselves  be  drawn  into  the  panic, 
had   accepted   the   victory   with   grave   serenity.     None 

387 


388    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

of  them  could  explain  the  exact  course  of  the  battle; 
they  would  learn  all  about  it  when  it  was  entirely 
finished. 

One  September  Sunday,  at  the  hour  when  the  Pari- 
sians are  accustomed  to  take  advantage  of  the  lovely 
twilight,  they  had  learned  from  the  newspapers  of  the 
great  triumph  of  the  Allies  and  of  the  great  danger 
which  they  had  so  narrowly  escaped.  The  people  were 
delighted,  but  did  not,  however,  abandon  their  calm  de- 
meanor. Six  weeks  of  war  had  radically  changed  the 
temperament  of  turbulent  and  impressionable   Paris. 

The  victory  was  slowly  restoring  the  Capital  to  its 
former  aspect.  A  street  that  was  practically  deserted 
a  few  weeks  before  was  now  filled  with  transients. 
The  shops  were  reopening.  The  neighbors  accustomed 
to  the  conventional  silence  of  their  deserted  apartment 
houses,  again  heard  sounds  of  returning  life  in  the 
homes  above  and  below  them. 

Don  Marcelo's  satisfaction  in  welcoming  his  family 
home  was  considerably  clouded  by  the  presence  of  Dona 
Elena.  She  was  Germany  returning  to  the  encounter, 
the  enemy  again  established  within  his  tents.  Would 
he  never  be  able  to  free  himself  from  this  bondage  ?  .  .  . 
She  was  silent  in  her  brother-in-law's  presence  because 
recent  events  had  rather  bewildered  her.  Her  coun- 
tenance was  stamped  with  a  wondering  expression  as 
though  she  were  gazing  at  the  upsetting  of  the  most 
elemental  physical  laws.  In  reflective  silence  she  was 
puzzling  over  the  Mame  enigma,  unable  to  understand 
how  it  was  that  the  Germans  had  not  conquered  the 
ground  on  which  she  was  treading;  and  in  order  to 
explain  this  failure,  she  resorted  to  the  most  absurd 
suppositions. 

One  especially  engrossing  matter  was  increasing  her 
sadness.    Her  sons.  .  .  .    What  would  become  of  her 


AFTER  THE  MARNE  389 

sons!  Don  Marcelo  had  never  told  her  of  his  meeting 
with  Captain  von  Hartrott.  He  was  maintaining  abso- 
lute silence  about  his  sojourn  at  Villeblanche.  He  had 
no  desire  to  recount  his  adventures  at  the  battle  of  the 
Mame.  What  was  the  use  of  saddening  his  loved  ones 
with  such  miseries?  .  .  .  He  simply  told  Dona  Luisa, 
who  was  alarmed  about  the  possible  fate  of  the  castle, 
that  they  would  not  be  able  to  go  there  for  many  years 
to  come,  because  the  hostilities  had  rendered  it  unin- 
habitable. A  covering  of  zinc  sheeting  had  been  sub- 
stituted for  the  ancient  roof  in  order  to  prevent  further 
injury  from  wind  and  rain  to  the  wrecked  interior. 
Later  on,  after  peace  had  been  declared,  they  would 
think  about  its  renovation.  Just  now  it  had  too  many 
inhabitants.  And  all  the  ladies,  including  Dona  Elena, 
shuddered  in  imagining  the  thousands  of  buried  bodies 
forming  their  ghastly  circle  around  the  building.  This 
vision  made  Frau  von  Hartrott  again  groan,  "Ay,  my 
sons !" 

Finally,  for  humanity's  sake,  her  brother-in-law  set 
her  mind  at  rest  regarding  the  fate  of  one  of  them, 
the  Captain  von  Hartrott.  He  was  in  perfect  health  at 
the  beginning  of  the  battle.  He  knew  that  this  was  so 
from  a  friend  who  had  conversed  with  him  .  .  .  and 
he  did  not  wish  to  talk  further  about  him. 

Dona  Luisa  was  spending  a  part  of  each  day  in  the 
churches,  trying  to  quiet  her  uneasiness  with  prayer. 
These  petitions  were  no  longer  vague  and  generous  for 
the  fate  of  millions  of  unknown  men,  for  the  victory  of 
an  entire  people.  With  maternal  self-centredness  they 
were  focussed  on  one  single  person — her  son,  who  was 
a  soldier  like  the  others,  and  perhaps  at  this  very  moment 
was  exposed  to  the  greatest  danger.  The  tears  that  he 
had  cost  her!  .  .  .  She  had  implored  that  he  and  his 
father  might  come  to  understand  each  other,  and  finally 


390     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

just  as  God  was  miraculously  granting  her  supplication 
Julio  had  taken  himself  off  to  the  field  of  death. 

Her  entreaties  never  went  alone  to  the  throne  of 
grace.  Someone  was  praying  near  her,  formulating  iden- 
tical requests.  The  tearful  eyes  of  her  sister  were 
raised  at  the  same  time  as  hers  to  the  figure  of  the 
crucified  Savior.  .  .  .  "Lord,  save  my  son!"  .  .  .  When 
uttering  these  words,  Dona  Luisa  always  saw  Julio  as  he 
looked  in  a  pale  photograph  which  he  had  sent  his 
father  from  the  trenches — with  kepis  and  military  cloak, 
a  gun  in  his  right  hand,  and  his  face  shadowed  by  a 
growing  beard.  "O  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us!"  .  .  . 
and  Dona  Elena  was  at  the  same  time  contemplating  a 
group  of  officers  with  helmets  and  reseda  uniforms  rein- 
forced with  leather  pouches  for  the  revolver,  field  glasses 
and  maps,  with  sword-belt  of  the  same  material. 

Oftentimes  when  Don  Marcelo  saw  them  setting  forth 
together  toward  Saint  Honore  d'Eylau,  he  would  wax 
very  indignant. 

"They  are  juggling  with  God.  .  .  .  This  is  most  un- 
reasonable! How  could  He  grant  such  contrary  peti- 
tions? .  .  .     Ah,  these  women!" 

And  then,  with  that  superstition  which  danger  awak- 
ens, he  began  to  fear  that  his  sister-in-law  might  cause 
some  grave  disaster  to  his  son.  Divinity,  fatigued  with 
so  many  contradictory  prayers  was  going  to  turn  His 
back  and  not  listen  to  any  of  them.  Why  did  not  this 
fatal  woman  take  herself  off?  .  .  . 

He  felt  as  exasperated  at  her  presence  in  his  home 
as  he  had  at  the  beginning  of  hostilities.  Doiia  Luisa 
was  still  innocently  repeating  her  sister's  statements, 
submitting  them  to  the  superior  criticism  of  her  husband. 
In  this  way,  Don  Marcelo  had  learned  that  the  victory  of 
the  Marne  had  never  really  happened ;  it  was  an  inven- 
tion of  the  allies.     The  German  generals  had  deemed  it 


AFTER  THE  MARNE  391 

prudent  to  retire  through  profound  strategic  foresight, 
deferring  till  a  little  later  the  conquest  of  Paris,  and 
the  French  had  done  nothing  but  follow  them  over  the 
ground  which  they  had  left  free.  That  was  all.  She 
knew  the  opinions  of  military  men  of  neutral  countries; 
she  had  been  talking  in  Biarritz  with  some  people  of  un- 
usual intelligence ;  she  knew  what  the  German  papers 
were  saying  about  it.  Nobody  over  there  believed  that 
yarn  about  the  Marne.  The  people  did  not  even  know 
that  there  had  been  such  a  battle. 

"Your  sister  said  that?"  interrupted  Desnoyers,  pale 
with  wrath  and  amazement. 

But  he  could  do  nothing  but  keep  on  longing  for  the 
bodily  transformation  of  this  enemy  planted  under  his 
roof.  Ay,  if  she  could  only  be  changed  into  a  man! 
If  only  the  evil  genius  of  her  husband  could  but  take 
her  place  for  a  brief  half  hour !  .  .  . 

"But  the  war  still  goes  on,"  said  Doiia  Luisa  in  art- 
less perplexity.  "The  enemy  is  still  in  France.  .  .  . 
What  good  did  the  battle  of  the  Marne  do?" 

She  accepted  his  explanations  with  intelligent  noddings 
of  the  head,  seeming  to  take  them  all  in,  and  an  hour 
afterwards  would  be  repeating  the  same  doubts. 

She,  nevertheless,  began  to  evince  a  mute  hostility 
toward  her  sister.  Until  now,  she  had  been  tolerating 
her  enthusiasms  in  favor  of  her  husband's  country  be- 
cause she  always  considered  family  ties  of  more  im- 
portance than  the  rivalries  of  nations.  Just  because 
Desnoyers  happened  to  be  a  Frenchman  and  Karl  a  Ger- 
man, she  was  not  going  to  quarrel  with  Elena.  But 
suddenly  this  forbearance  had  vanished.  Her  son  was 
now  in  danger.  .  .  .  Better  that  all  the  von  Hartrotts 
should  die  than  that  Julio  should  receive  the  most  in- 
significant wound !  .  .  .  She  began  to  share  the  bellicose 
sentiments  of  her  daughter,  recognizing  in  her  an  ex- 


392     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ceptional  talent  for  appraising  events,  and  now  desiring 
all  of  Chichi's  dagger  thrusts  to  be  converted  into 
reality. 

Fortunately  La  Romantica  took  herself  off  before  this 
antipathy  crystallized.  She  was  accustomed  to  pass 
the  afternoons  somewhere  outside,  and  on  her  return 
would  repeat  the  news  gleaned  from  friends  unknown 
to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

This  made  Don  Marcelo  wax  very  indignant  because 
of  the  spies  still  hidden  in  Paris.  What  mysterious 
world  was  his  sister-in-law  frequenting?  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  announced  that  she  was  leaving  the 
following  morning;  she  had  obtained  a  passport  to 
Switzerland,  and  from  there  she  would  go  to  Germany. 
It  was  high  time  for  her  to  be  returning  to  her  own ; 
she  was  most  appreciative  of  the  hospitality  shown  her 
by  the  family.  .  .  .  And  Desnoyers  bade  her  good-bye 
with  aggressive  irony.  His  regards  to  von  Hartrott; 
he  was  hoping  to  pay  him  a  visit  in  Berlin  as  soon  as 
possible. 

One  morning  Doiia  Ltrisa,  instead  of  entering  the 
neighboring  church  as  usual,  continued  on  to  the  rue  de  la 
Pompe,  pleased  at  the  thought  of  seeing  the  studio  once 
more.  It  seemed  to  her  that  in  this  way  she  might  put 
herself  more  closely  in  touch  with  her  son.  This  would 
be  a  new  pleasure,  even  greater  than  poring  over  his 
photograph  or  re-reading  his  last  letter. 

She  was  hoping  to  meet  Argensola,  the  friend  of  good 
counsels,  for  she  knew  that  he  was  still  living  in  the 
studio.  Twice  he  had  come  to  see  her  by  the  service 
stairway  as  in  the  old  days,  but  she  had  been  out. 

As  she  went  up  in  the  elevator,  her  heart  was  palpi- 
tating with  pleasure  and  distress.  It  occurred  to  the 
good  lady  that  the  "foolish  virgins"  must  have  had  feel- 


AFTER  THE  MARNE  393 

ings  like  this  when  for  the  first  time  they  fell  from  the 
heights  of  virtue. 

The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  when  she  beheld  the  room 
whose  furnishings  and  pictures  so  vividly  recalled  the 
absent.  Argensola  hastened  from  the  door  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  agitated,  confused,  and  greeting  her  with 
expressions  of  welcome  at  the  same  time  that  he  was 
putting  sundry  objects  out  of  sight.  A  woman's  sweater 
lying  on  the  divan,  he  covered  with  a  piece  of  Oriental 
drapery — a  hat  trimmed  with  flowers,  he  sent  flying 
into  a  far-away  comer.  Dona  Luisa  fancied  that  she 
saw  a  bit  of  gauzy  feminine  negligee  embroidered  in 
pink,  flitting  past  the  window  frame.  Upon  the  divan 
were  two  big  coffee  cups  and  bits  of  toast  evidently 
left  from  a  double  breakfast.  These  artists!  .  .  .  The 
same  as  her  son !  And  she  was  moved  to  compassion 
over  the  bad  life  of  Julio's  counsellor. 

"My  honored  Dona  Luisa.  .  .  .  My  dear  Madame 
Desnoyers.  .  .  ." 

He  was  speaking  in  French  and  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  looking  frantically  at  the  door  through  which 
the  white  and  rosy  garments  had  flitted.  He  was 
trembling  at  the  thought  that  his  hidden  companion,  not 
understanding  the  situation,  might  in  a  jealous  fit,  com- 
promise hJra  by  a  sudden  apparition. 

Then  he  spoke  to  his  unexpected  guest  about  the 
soldier,  exchanging  news  with  her.  Dona  Luisa  re- 
peated almost  word  for  word  the  paragraphs  of  his 
letters  so  frequently  read.  Argensola  modestly  re- 
frained from  displaying  his ;  the  two  friends  were  ac- 
customed to  an  epistolary  style  which  would  have  made 
the  good  lady  blush. 

"A  valiant  man !"  affirmed  the  Spaniard  proudly,  look- 
ing upon  the  deeds  of  his  comrade  as  though  they  were 
his   own.     "A   true  hero!   and   I,    Madame   Desnoyers, 


394     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

know  something  about  what  that  means.  .  .  .  His  chiefs 
know  how  to  appreciate  him."  ,  .  . 

Julio  was  a  sergeant  after  having  been  only  two  months 
In  the  campaign.  The  captain  of  his  company  and  the 
other  officials  of  the  regiment  belonged  to  the  fencing 
club  in  which  he  had  had  so  many  triumphs. 

"What  a  career!"  he  enthused.  "He  is  one  of  those 
who  in  youth  reach  the  highest  ranks,  like  the  Generals 
of  the  Revolution.  .  .  .  And  what  wonders  he  has  ac- 
complished !" 

The  budding  officer  had  merely  referred  in  the  most 
casual  way  to  some  of  his  exploits,  with  the  indifference 
of  one  accustomed  to  danger  and  expecting  the  same  atti- 
tude from  his  comrades ;  but  his  chum  exaggerated  them, 
enlarging  upon  them  as  though  they  were  the  culminating 
events  of  the  war.  He  had  carried  an  order  across  an 
infernal  fire,  after  three  messengers,  trying  to  accomplish 
the  same  feat,  had  fallen  dead.  He  had  been  the  first  to 
attack  many  trenches  and  had  saved  many  of  his 
comrades  by  means  of  the  blows  from  his  bayonet  and 
hand  to  hand  encounters.  Whenever  his  superior  offi- 
cers needed  a  reliable  man,  they  invariably  said,  "Let 
Sergeant  Desnoyers  be  called!" 

He  rattled  off  all  this  as  though  he  had  witnessed  it, 
as  if  he  had  just  come  from  the  seat  of  war,  making 
Dona  Luisa  tremble  and  pour  forth  tears  of  joy  mingled 
with  fear  over  the  glories  and  dangers  of  her  son.  That 
Argensola  certainly  possessed  the  gift  of  affecting  his 
hearers  by  the  realism  with  which  he  told  his  stories ! 

In  gratitude  for  these  eulogies,  she  felt  that  she  ought 
to  show  some  interest  in  his  affairs.  .  .  .  What  had  he 
been  doing  of  late? 

"I,  Madame,  have  been  where  I  ought  to  be.  I  have 
not  budged  from  this  spot.  I  have  witnessed  the  siege 
of  Paris." 


AFTER  THE  MARNE  395 

In  vain,  his  reason  protested  against  the  inexactitude 
of  that  word,  "siege."  Under  the  influence  of  his  read- 
ings about  the  war  of  1870,  he  had  classed  as  a  siege 
all  those  events  which  had  developed  near  Paris  during 
the  course  of  the  battle  of  the  Marne. 

He  pointed  modestly  to  a  diploma  in  a  gold  frame 
hanging  above  the  piano  against  a  tricolored  flag.  It 
was  one  of  the  papers  sold  in  the  streets,  a  certificate 
of  residence  in  the  Capital  during  the  week  of  danger. 
He  had  filled  in  the  blanks  with  his  name  and  description 
of  his  person ;  and  at  the  foot  were  very  conspicuous  the 
signatures  of  two  residents  of  the  rue  de  la  Pompe—a. 
tavern-keeper,  and  a  friend  of  the  concierge.  The  dis- 
trict Commissary  of  Police,  with  stamp  and  seal,  had 
guaranteed  the  respectability  of  these  honorable  wit- 
nesses. Nobody  could  remain  in  doubt,  after  such  pre- 
cautions, as  to  whether  he  had  or  had  not  witnessed  the 
siege  of  Paris.     He  had  such  incredulous  friends !  .  .  . 

In  order  to  bring  the  scene  more  dramatically  before 
his  amiable  listener,  he  recalled  the  most  striking  of 
his  impressions  for  her  special  benefit.  Once,  in  broad 
daylight,  he  ha.d  seen  a  flock  of  sheep  in  the  boulevard 
near  the  Madeleine.  Their  tread  had  resounded  through 
the  deserted  streets  like  echoes  from  the  city  of  the  dead. 
He  was  the  only  pedestrian  on  the  sidewalks  thronged 
with  cats  and  dogs. 

His  military  recollections  excited  him  like  tales  of 
glory. 

"I  have  seen  the  march  of  the  soldiers  from  Mo- 
rocco. ...   I  have  seen  the  Zouaves  in  automobiles !" 

The  very  night  that  Julio  had  gone  to  Bordeaux,  he 
had  wandered  around  till  sunrise,  traversing  half  of 
Paris,  from  the  Lion  of  Belfort,  to  the  Gare  de  I'Est. 
Tv.-enty  thousand  men,  with  all  their  campaign  outfit, 
coming  from  jMorocco,  had  disembarked  at  Marseilles 


396    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

and  arrived  at  the  Capital,  making  part  of  the  trip  by  rail 
and  the  rest  afoot.  They  had  come  to  take  part  in  the 
great  battle  then  beginning.  They  were  troops  com- 
posed of  Europeans  and  Africans.  The  vanguard,  on 
entering  through  the  Orleans  gate,  had  swung  into 
rhythmic  pace,  thus  crossing  half  Paris  toward  the 
Gare  de  I'Est  where  the  trains  were  waiting  for  them. 

The  people  of  Paris  had  seen  squadrons  from  Tunis 
with  theatrical  uniforms,  mounted  on  horses,  nervous 
and  fleet,  Moors  with  yellow  turbans,  Senegalese  with 
black  faces  and  scarlet  caps,  colonial  artillerymen,  and 
light  infantry  from  Africa.  These  were  professional 
warriors,  soldiers  who  in  times  of  peace,  led  a  life  of 
continual  fighting  in  the  colonies — men  with  energetic 
profiles,  bronzed  faces  and  the  eyes  of  beasts  of  prey. 
They  had  remained  motionless  in  the  streets  for  hours 
at  a  time,  until  room  could  be  found  for  them  in  the 
military  trains.  .  .  .  And  Argensola  had  followed  this 
armed,  impassive  mass  of  humanity  from  the  boulevards, 
talking  with  the  officials,  and  listening  to  the  primitive 
cries  of  the  African  warriors  who  had  never  seen  Paris, 
and  who  passed  through  it  without  curiosity,  asking 
where  the  enemy  was. 

They  had  arrived  in  time  to  attack  von  Kluck  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ourq,  obliging  him  to  fall  back  or  be  com- 
pletely overwhelmed, 

A  fact  which  Argensola  did  not  relate  to  his  sympa- 
thetic guest  was  that  his  nocturnal  excursion  the  entire 
length  of  this  division  of  the  army  had  been  accom- 
panied by  the  amiable  damsel  within,  and  two  other 
friends — an  enthusiastic  and  generous  coterie,  distribut- 
ing flowers  and  kisses  to  the  swarthy  soldiers,  and  laugh- 
ing at  their  consternation  and  gleaming  white  teeth. 

Another  day  he  had  seen  the  most  extraordinary  of 
all  the  spectacles  of  the  war.    All  the  taxicabs,  some  two 


AFTER  THE  MARNE  397 

thousand  vehicles,  conveying  battalions  of  Zouaves,  eight 
men  to  a  motor  car,  had  gone  rolling  past  him  at  full 
speed,  bristling  with  guns  and  red  caps.  They  had  pre- 
sented a  most  picturesque  train  in  the  boulevards,  like 
a  kind  of  interminable  wedding  procession.  And  these 
soldiers  got  out  of  the  automobiles  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  battle  field,  opening  fire  the  instant  that  they  leaped 
from  the  steps.  Gallieni  had  launched  all  the  men  who 
knew  how  to  handle  a  gun  against  the  extreme  right  of 
the  adversary  at  the  supreme  moment  when  the  most 
insignificant  weight  might  tip  the  scales  in  favor  of  the 
victory  which  was  hanging  in  the  balance.  The  clerks 
and  secretaries  of  the  militar}^  offices,  the  orderlies  of 
the  government  and  the  civil  police,  all  had  marched  to 
give  that  final  push,  forming  a  mass  of  heterogeneous 
colors. 

And  one  Sunday  afternoon  when,  with  his  three  com- 
panions of  the  "siege"  he  was  strolling  with  thousands 
of  other  Parisians  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  he  had 
learned  from  the  extras  that  the  combat  which  had 
developed  so  near  to  the  city  was  turning  into  a  great 
battle,  a  victory. 

"I  have  seen  much,  Madame  Desnoyers.  ...  I  can 
relate  great  events." 

And  she  agreed  with  him.  Of  course  Argensola  had 
seen  much !  .  .  .  And  on  taking  her  departure,  she 
offered  him  all  the  assistance  in  her  power.  He  was 
the  friend  of  her  son.  and  she  was  used  to  his  petitions. 
Times  had  changed ;  Don  Marcelo's  generosity  now  knew 
no  bounds  .  .  .  but  the  Bohemian  interrupted  her  with 
a  lordly  gesture;  he  was  living  in  luxury.  Julio  had 
made  him  his  trustee.  The  draft  from  America  had 
been  honored  by  the  bank  as  a  deposit,  and  he  had  the 
use  of  the  interest  in  accordance  with  the  regulations  of 
the  moratorium.     His  friend  v/as  sending  him  regularly 


398     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

whatever  money  was  needed  for  household  expenses 
Never  had  he  been  in  such  prosperous  condition.  War 
had  its  good  side,  too  .  .  .  but  not  wishing  to  break 
away  from  old  customs,  he  announced  that  once  more  he 
would  mount  the  service  stairs  in  order  to  bear  away  a 
basket  of  bottles. 

After  her  sister's  departure,  Dona  Luisa  went  alone  to 
the  churches  until  Chichi  in  an  outburst  of  devotional 
ardor,  suddenly  surprised  her  with  the  announcement: 

"Mama.  I  am  going  with  you !" 

The  new  devotee  was  no  longer  agitating  the  house- 
hold by  her  rollicking,  boyish  joy ;  she  was  no  longer 
threatening  the  enemy  with  imaginary  dagger  thrusts. 
She  was  pale,  and  with  dark  circles  under  her  eyes.  Her 
head  was  drooping  as  though  weighed  down  with  a  set  of 
serious,  entirely  new  thoughts  on  the  other  side  of  her 
forehead. 

Dona  Luisa  observed  her  in  the  church  with  an  almost 
indignant  jealousy.  Her  headstrong  child's  eyes  were 
moist,  and  she  was  praying  as  fervently  as  the  mother 
.  .  .  but  it  was  surely  not  for  her  brother.  Julio  had 
passed  to  second  place  in  her  remembrance.  Another 
man  was  now  completely  filling  her  thoughts. 

The  last  of  the  Lacours  was  no  longer  a  simple  soldier, 
nor  was  he  now  in  Paris.  Upon  her  return  from  Biar- 
ritz, Chichi  had  listened  anxiously  to  the  reports  from 
her  little  sugar  soldier.  Throbbing  with  eagerness,  she 
wanted  to  know  all  about  the  dangers  which  he  had 
been  experiencing;  and  the  young  warrior  "in  the  aux- 
iliary service"  told  her  of  his  restlessness  in  the  office 
during  the  interminable  days  in  which  the  troops  were 
battling  around  Paris,  hearing  afar  off  the  boom  of 
the  artillery.  His  father  had  wished  to  take  him  with 
him  to  Bordeaux,  but  the  administrative  confusion  of 
the  last  hour  had  kept  him  in  the  capital. 


AFTER  THE  MARNE  399 

He  had  done  something  more.  On  the  day  of  the 
great  crisis,  when  the  acting  governor  had  sent  out  all 
the  available  men  in  automobiles,  he  had,  unasked, 
seized  a  gun  and  occupied  a  motor  with  others  from  his 
office.  He  had  not  seen  anything  more  than  smoke, 
burning  houses,  and  wounded  men.  Not  a  single  Ger- 
man had  passed  before  his  eyes,  excepting  a  band  of 
Uhlan  prisoners,  but  for  some  hours  he  had  been  shoot- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  road  .  .  .  and  nothing  more. 

For  a  while,  that  was  enough  for  Chichf.  She  felt 
very  proud  to  be  the  betrothed  of  a  hero  of  the  Mame, 
even  though  his  intervention  had  lasted  but  a  few  hours. 
In  a  few  days,  however,  her  enthusiasm  became  rather 
clouded. 

It  was  becoming  annoying  to  stroll  through  the  streets 
with  Rene,  a  simple  soldier  and  in  the  auxiliary  service, 
besides.  .  .  .  The  women  of  the  town,  excited  by  the 
recollection  of  their  men  fighting  at  the  front,  or  clad 
in  mourning  because  of  the  death  of  some  loved  one, 
would  look  at  them  with  aggressive  insolence.  The  re- 
finement and  elegance  of  the  Republican  Prince  seemed 
to  irritate  them.  Several  times,  she  overheard  uncom- 
plimentary words  hurled  against  the  " emhusques." 

The  fact  that  her  brother  who  was  not  French  was 
in  the  thick  of  the  fighting,  made  the  Lacour  situation 
still  more  intolerable.  She  had  an  "embusque"  for  a 
lover.     How  her  friends  would  laugh  at  her!  ,  .  . 

The  senator's  son  soon  read  her  thoughts  and  began 
to  lose  some  of  his  smiling  serenity.  For  three  days 
he  did  not  present  himself  at  the  Desnoyers'  home, 
and  they  all  su^^osed  that  he  was  detained  by  work  at 
the  office. 

One  morning  as  Chichi  was  going  toward  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  escorted  by  one  of  the  nut-brown  maids,  she 
noticed  a  soldier  coming  toward  her.     He  was  wearing 


400     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

a  bright  uniform  of  the  new  gray-blue,  the  "horizon 
blue"  just  adopted  by  the  French  army.  The  chin  strap 
of  his  kepi  was  gilt,  and  on  his  sleeve  there  was  a  little 
strip  of  gold.  His  smile,  his  outstretched  hands,  the 
confidence  with  which  he  advanced  toward  her  made 
her  recognize  him.  Rene  an  officer!  Her  betrothed  a 
sub-lieutenant ! 

"Yes,  of  course !  I  could  do  nothing  else.  ...  I  had 
heard  enough!" 

Without  his  father's  knowledge,  and  assisted  by  his 
friends,  he  had  in  a  few  days,  wrought  this  wonderful 
transformation.  As  a  graduate  of  the  ^cole  Centrale, 
he  held  the  rank  of  a  sub-lieutenant  of  the  Reserve 
Artillery,  and  he  had  requested  to  be  sent  to  the  front. 
Good-bye  to  the  auxiliary  service!  .  .  .  Within  two 
days,  he  was  going  to  start  for  the  war. 

"You  have  done  this!"  exclaimed  Chichi.  "You  have 
done  this!" 

Although  very  pale,  she  gazed  fondly  at  him  with  her 
great  eyes — eyes  that  seemed  to  devour  him  with  admira- 
tion. * 

"Come  here,  my  poor  boy.  .  .  .  Come  here,  my  sweet 
little  soldier !     .  .  .     I  owe  you  something." 

And  turning  her  back  on  the  maid,  she  asked  him  to 
come  with  her  round  the  corner.  It  was  just  the  same 
there.  The  cross  street  was  just  as  thronged  as  the 
avenue.  But  what  did  she  care  for  the  stare  of  the 
curious !  Rapturously  she  flung  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  blind  and  insensible  to  everything  and  everybody 
but  him. 

"There.  .  .  .  There!"  And  she  planted  on  his  face 
two  vehement,  sonorous,  aggressive  kisses. 

Then  trembling  and  shuddering,  she  suddenly  weak- 
ened, and  fumbling  for  her  handkerchief,  broke  down  in 
desperate  weeping. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  THE  STUDIO 

Upon  opening  the  studio  door  one  afternoon,  Argen- 
sola  stood  motionless  with  surprise,  as  though  rooted  to 
the  ground. 

An  old  gentleman  was  greeting  him  with  an  amiable 
smile. 

"I  am  the  father  of  Julio." 

And  he  walked  into  the  apartment  with  the  confidence 
of  a  man  entirely  familiar  with  his  surroundings. 

By  good  luck,  the  artist  was  alone,  and  was  not  obliged 
to  tear  frantically  from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other, 
hiding  the  traces  of  convivial  company;  but  he  was  a 
little  slow  in  regaining  his  self-control.  He  had  heard 
so  much  about  Don  Marcelo  and  his  bad  temper,  that 
he  was  very  uncomfortable  at  this  unexpected  appearance 
in  the  studio.  .  .  .     What  could  the  fearful  man  want? 

His  tranquillity  was  restored  after  a  furtive,  apprais- 
ing glance.  His  friend's  father  had  aged  greatly  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  He  no  longer  had  that  air  of 
tenacity  and  ill-humor  that  had  made  him  unapproach- 
able. His  eyes  were  sparkling  with  childish  glee;  his 
hands  were  trembling  slightly,  and  his  back  was  bent. 
Argensola,  who  had  always  dodged  him  in  the  street  and 
had  thrilled  with  fear  when  sneaking  up  the  stairway 
in  the  avenue  home,  now  felt  a  sudden  confidence.  The 
transformed  old  man  was  beaming  on  him  like  a  com- 
rade, and  making  excuses  to  justify  his  visit. 


402     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

He  had  wished  to  see  his  son's  home.  Poor  old  man ! 
He  was  drawn  thither  by  the  same  attraction  which 
leads  the  lover  to  lessen  his  solitude  by  haunting  the 
places  that  his  beloved  has  frequented.  The  letters  from 
Julio  were  not  enough ;  he  needed  to  see  his  old  abode, 
to  be  on  familiar  terms  with  the  objects  which  had 
surrounded  him,  to  breathe  the  same  air,  to  chat  with 
the  young  man  who  was  his  boon  companion. 

His  fatherly  glance  now  included  Argensola.  .  .  .  "A 
very  interesting  fellow,  that  Argensola !"  And  as  he 
thought  this,  he  forgot  completely  that,  without  know- 
ing him,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  refer  to  him  as 
"shameless,"  just  because  he  was  sharing  his  son's 
prodigal  life. 

Desnoyers'  glance  roamed  delightedly  around  the  stu- 
dio. He  knew  well  these  tapestries  and  furnishings, 
all  the  decorations  of  the  former  owner.  He  easily  re- 
membered everything  that  he  had  ever  bought,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  they  were  so  many.  His  eyes  then 
sought  the  personal  effects,  everything  that  would  call  the 
absent  occupant  to  mind;  and  he  pored  over  the  miser- 
ably executed  paintings,  the  unfinished  dabs  which  filled 
all  the  corners. 

Were  they  all  Julio's?  .  .  .  Many  of  the  canvases  be- 
longed to  Argensola,  but  affected  by  the  old  man's  emo- 
tion, the  artist  displayed  a  marvellous  generosity.  \es, 
everything  was  Julio's  handiwork  .  .  .  and  the  father 
went  from  canvas  to  canvas,  halting  admiringly  before 
the  vaguest  daubs  as  though  he  could  almost  detect  signs 
of  genius  in  their  nebulous  confusion. 

''You  think  he  has  talent,  really?"  he  asked  in  a  tone 
that  implored  a  favorable  reply.  "I  always  thought  him 
very  intelligent  ...  a  little  of  the  diable,  perhaps,  but 
character  changes  with  years,  t  e  •  Now  he  is  an  alto- 
gether different  man." 


IN  THE  STUDIO  403 

And  he  almost  wept  at  hearing  the  Spaniard,  with  his 
ready,  enthusiastic  speech,  lauding  the  departed  "diable," 
graphically  setting  forth  the  way  in  which  his  great 
genius  was  going  to  take  the  world  when  his  turn  should 
come. 

The  painter  of  souls  finally  worked  himself  up  into 
feeling  as  much  affected  as  the  father,  and  began  to 
admire  this  old  Frenchman  with  a  certain  remorse,  not 
wishing  to  remember  how  he  had  ranted  against  him 
not  so  very  long  ago.     What  injustice!  .  .  . 

Don  Marcelo  clasped  his  hand  like  an  old  comrade. 
All  of  his  son's  friends  were  his  friends.     He  knew  the 

life  that  young  men  lived If  at  any  time,  he 

should  be  in  any  difficulties,  if  he  needed  an  allowance 
so  as  to  keep  on  with  his  painting — there  he  was,  anxious 
to  help  him!  He  then  and  there  invited  him  to  dine 
at  his  home  that  very  night,  and  if  he  would  care  to  come 
every  evening,  so  much  the  better.  He  would  eat  a 
family  dinner,  entirely  informal.  War  had  brought 
about  a  great  many  changes,  but  he  would  always  be  as 
welcome  to  the  intimacy  of  the  hearth  as  though  he 
were  in  his  father's  home. 

Then  he  spoke  of  Spain,  in  order  to  place  himself  on 
a  more  congenial  footing  with  the  artist.  He  had  never 
been  there  but  once,  and  then  only  for  a  short  time ;  but 
after  the  war,  he  was  going  to  know  it  better.  His 
father-in-law  was  a  Spaniard,  his  wife  had  Spanish 
blood,  and  in  his  home  the  language  of  the  family  was 
always  Castilian.  Ah,  Spain,  the  country  with  a  noble 
past  and  illustrious  men!  .... 

Argensola  had  a  strong  suspicion  that  if  he  had  been 
a  native  of  any  other  land,  the  old  gentleman  would  have 
praised  it  in  the  same  way.  All  this  affection  was  but  a 
reflex  of  his  love  for  his  absent  son,  but  it  so  pleased 


404     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  impressionable  fellow  that  he  almost  embraced  Don 
Marcelo  when  he  took  his  departure. 

After  that,  his  visits  to  the  studio  were  very  frequent. 
The  artist  was  obliged  to  recommend  his  friends  to  take 
a  good  long  walk  after  lunch,  abstaining  from  reappear- 
ing in  the  rue  de  la  Pompe  until  nightfall.  Sometimes, 
however,  Don  Marcelo  would  unexpectedly  present  him- 
self in  the  morning,  and  then  the  soulful  impressionist 
would  have  to  scurry  from  place  to  place,  hiding  here, 
concealing  there,  in  order  that  his  workroom  should  pre- 
serve its  appearance  of  virtuous  labor. 

"Youth.  .  .  youth!"  the  visitor  would  murmur  with  a 
smile  of  tolerance. 

And  he  actually  had  to  make  an  effort  to  recall  the 
dignity  of  his  years,  in  order  not  to  ask  Argensola  to 
present  him  to  the  fair  fugitives  whose  presence  he 
suspected  in  the  interior  rooms.  Perhaps  they  had  been 
his  boy's  friends,  too.  They  represented  a  oart  of  his 
past,  anyway,  and  that  was  enough  to  make  him  pre- 
sume that  they  had  great  charms  which  made  them  in- 
teresting. 

These  surprises,  with  their  upsetting  consequences, 
finally  made  the  painter  rather  regret  this  new  friend- 
ship ;  and  the  invitations  to  dinner  which  he  was  con- 
stantly receiving  bored  him,  too.  He  found  the  Des- 
noyers  table  most  excellent,  but  too  tedious — for  the 
father  and  mother  could  talk  of  nothing  but  their  absent 
son.  Chichi  scarcely  looked  at  her  brother's  friend. 
Her  attention  was  entirely  concentrated  on  the  war. 
The  irregularity  in  the  mails  was  exasperating  her  so 
that  she  began  composing  protests  to  the  government 
whenever  a  few  days  passed  by  without  bringing  any 
letter  from  sub-Lieutenant  Lacour. 

Argensola  excused  himself  on  various  pretexts  from 
continuing   to   dine    in    the    az'enue    Victor   Hugo.      It 


IN  THE  STUDIO  405 

pleased  him  far  more  to  haunt  the  cheap  restaurants  with 
his  female  flock.  His  host  accepted  his  negatives  with 
good-natured  resignation. 

"Not  to-day,  either?" 

And  in  order  to  compensate  for  his  guest's  non-appear- 
ance, he  would  present  himself  at  the  studio  earlier 
than  ever  on  the  day  following. 

It  was  an  exquisite  pleasure  for  the  doting  father  to 
let  the  time  slip  by  seated  on  the  divan  which  still 
seemed  to  guard  the  very  hollow  made  by  Julio's  body, 
gazing  at  the  canvases  covered  with  color  by  his  brush, 
toasting  his  toes  by  the  heat  of  a  stove  which  roared 
so  cosily  in  the  profound,  conventual  silence.  It  cer- 
tainly was  an  agreeable  refuge,  full  of  memories  in  the 
midst  of  monotonous  Paris  so  saddened  by  the  war  that 
he  could  not  meet  a  friend  who  was  not  preoccupied 
with  his  own  troubles. 

His  former  purchasing  dissipations  had  now  lost  all 
charm  for  him.  The  Hotel  Drouot  no  longer  tempted 
him.  At  that  time,  the  goods  of  German  residents, 
seized  by  the  government,  were  being  auctioned  off; — 
a  felicitous  retaliation  for  the  enforced  journey  which 
the  fittings  of  the  castle  of  Villeblanche  had  taken  on 
the  road  to  Berlin ;  but  the  agents  told  him  in  vain  of 
the  few  competitors  which  he  would  now  meet.  He  no 
longer  felt  attracted  by  these  extraordinary  bargains. 
Why  buy  anything  more?  ...  Of  what  use  was  such 
useless  stuff?  Whenever  he  thought  of  the  hard  life 
of  millions  of  men  in  the  open  field,  he  felt  a  longing 
to  lead  an  ascetic  life.  He  was  beginning  to  hate  the 
ostentatious  splendors  of  his  home  on  the  avenue  Victor 
Hugo.  He  now  recalled  without  a  regretful  pang,  the 
destruction  of  the  castle.  No,  he  was  far  better  off 
there  .  .  .  and  "there''  was  always  the  studio  of  Julio. 

Argensola  began  to  form  the  habit  of  working  in  the 


406     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

presence  of  Don  Marcelo.  He  knew  that  the  resolute 
soul  abominated  inactive  people,  so,  under  the  conta- 
gious influence  of  dominant  will-power,  he  began  sev- 
eral new  pieces.  Desnoyers  would  follow  with  interest 
the  motions  of  his  brush  and  accept  all  the  explanations 
of  the  soulful  delineator.  For  himself,  he  always  pre- 
ferred the  old  masters,  and  in  his  bargains  had  acquired 
the  work  of  many  a  dead  artist;  but  the  fact  that  Julio 
had  thought  as  his  partner  did  was  now  enough  for  the 
devotee  of  the  antique  and  made  him  admit  humbly  all 
the  Spaniard's  superior  theories. 

The  artist's  laborious  zeal  was  always  of  short  dura- 
tion. After  a  few  moments,  he  always  found  that  he 
preferred  to  rest  on  the  divan  and  converse  with  his 
guest. 

The  first  subject,  of  course,  was  the  absentee.  They 
would  repeat  fragments  of  the  letters  they  had  received, 
and  would  speak  of  the  past  with  the  most  discreet 
allusions.  The  painter  described  Julio's  life  before  the 
war  as  an  existence  dedicated  completely  to  art.  The 
father  ignored  the  inexactitude  of  such  words,  and 
gratefully  accepted  the  lie  as  a  proof  of  friendship. 
Argensola  was  such  a  clever  comrade,  never,  in  his 
loftiest  verbal  flights,  making  the  slightest  reference  to 
Madame  Laurier. 

The  old  gentleman  was  often  thinking  about  her  now- 
adays, for  he  had  seen  her  in  the  street  giving  her  arm 
to  her  husband,  now  recovered  from  his  wounds.  The 
illustrious  Lacour  had  informed  him  with  great  satis- 
faction of  their  reconciliation.  The  engineer  had  lost 
but  one  eye.  Now  he  was  again  at  the  head  of  his 
factory  requisitioned  by  the  government  for  the  manu- 
facture of  shells.  He  was  a  Captain,  and  was  wearing 
two  decorations  of  honor.  The  senator  did  not  know 
exactly  how  this  unexpected  agreement  had  come  about. 


IN  THE  STUDIO  407 

He  had  one  day  seen  them  coming  home  together,  look- 
ing affectionately  at  each  other,  in  complete  oblivion  of 
the  past. 

"Who  remembers  things  that  happened  before  the 
war?"  said  the  politic  sage.  "They  and  their  friends 
have  completely  forgotten  all  about  their  divorce.  Now- 
adays we  are  all  living  a  new  existence.  ...  I  believe 
that  the  two  are  happier  than  ever  before." 

Desnoyers  had  had  a  presentiment  of  this  happiness 
when  he  saw  them  together.  And  the  man  of  inflexible 
morality  who  was,  the  year  before,  anathematizing  his 
sen's  behavior  toward  Laurier,  considering  it  the  most 
unpardonable  of  his  adventures,  now  felt  a  certain  indig- 
nation in  seeing  Marguerite  devoted  to  her  husband, 
and  talking  to  him  with  such  affectionate  interest.  This 
matrimonial  felicity  seemed  to  him  like  the  basest  ingrati- 
tude. A  woman  who  had  had  such  an  influence  over  the 
life  of  Julio !  .  .  .  Could  she  thus  easily  forget  her 
love!  .  .  . 

The  two  had  passed  on  as  though  they  did  not  recog- 
nize him.  Perhaps  Captain  Laurier  did  not  see  very 
clearly,  but  she  had  looked  at  him  frankly  and  then 
hastily  averted  her  eyes  so  as  to  evade  his  greeting.  .  .  . 
The  old  man  felt  sad  over  such  indifference,  not  on  his 
own  account,  but  on  his  son's.  Poor  Julio!  .  .  .  The 
unbending  parent,  in  complete  mental  immorality,  found 
himself  lamenting  this  indifference  as  something  mon- 
strous. 

The  war  was  the  other  topic  of  conversation  during 
the  afternoons  passed  in  the  studio.  Argensola  was  not 
now  stuffing  his  pockets  with  printed  sheets  as  at  the 
beginning  of  hostilities.  A  serene  and  resigned  calm  had 
succeeded  the  excitement  of  those  first  moments  when 
the  people  were  daily  looking  for  miraculous  interven- 
tions.    All  the  periodicals  were  saying  about  the  same 


4o8     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

thing.  He  was  content  with  the  official  report,  and  he 
had  learned  to  wait  for  that  document  without  impa- 
tience, foreseeing  that  with  but  few  exceptions,  it  would 
say  the  same  thing  as  the  day  before. 

The  fever  of  the  first  months,  with  its  illusions  and 
optimisms,  now  appeared  to  Argensola  somewhat  chi- 
merical. Those  not  actually  engaged  in  the  war  were 
returning  gradually  to  their  habitual  occupations.  Life 
had  recovered  its  regular  rhythm.  "One  must  live!" 
said  the  people,  and  the  struggle  for  existence  filled  their 
thoughts  with  its  immediate  urgency.  Those  whose  rela- 
tives were  in  the  army,  were  still  thinking  of  them, 
but  their  occupations  were  so  blunting  the  edge  of  mem- 
ory, that  they  were  becoming  accustomed  to  their  ab- 
sence, regarding  the  unusual  as  the  normal  condition. 
At  first,  the  war  made  sleep  out  of  the  question,  food 
impossible  to  swallow,  and  embittered  every  pleasure 
with  its  funereal  pall.  Now  the  shops  were  slowly 
opening,  money  was  in  circulation,  and  people  were 
able  to  laugh ;  they  talked  of  the  great  calamity,  but  only 
at  certain  hours,  as  something  that  was  going  to  be  long, 
very  long  and  would  exact  great  resignation  to  its  in- 
evitable fatalism. 

"Humanity  accustoms  itself  easily  to  trouble,"  said 
Argensola,  "provided  that  the  trouble  lasts  long  enough. 
...     In  this  lies  our  strength." 

Don  Marcelo  was  not  in  sympathy  with  the  general 
resignation.  The  war  was  going  to  be  much  shorter 
than  they  were  all  imagining.  His  enthusiasm  had  set- 
tled on  a  speedy  termination ; — within  the  next  three 
months,  the  next  Spring  probably ;  if  peace  were  not 
declared  in  the  Spring,  it  surely  would  be  in  the  Summer. 

A  new  talker  took  part  in  these  conversations.  Des- 
noyers  had  become  acquainted  with  the  Russian  neighbor 
of  whom  Argensola  had  so   frequently  spoken.     Since 


IX  THE  STUDIO  409 

this  odd  personage  had  also  known  his  s  n,  that  was 
enough  to  make  Tchernoff  arouse  his  interest. 

In  normal  times,  he  would  have  kept  him  at  a  distance. 
T!ie  millionaire  was  a  great  believer  in  law  and  order. 
He  abominated  revolutionists,  with  the  instinctive  fear  of 
all  xb.e  rich  who  have  built  up  a  fortune  and  remember 
their  humble  beginnings.  Tchernoff's  socialism  and 
nationality  brought  vividly  to  his  mind  a  series  of  fever- 
ish images — bombs,  daggers,  stabbings,  deserved  expia- 
tions on  the  gallows,  and  exile  to  Siberia.  No,  he  was 
not  desirable  as  a  friend.  .  .  . 

But  now  Don  Marcelo  was  experiencing  an  abrupt 
reversal  of  his  convictions  regarding  alien  ideas.  He 
had  seen  so  much !  .  .  .  The  revolting  proceedings  of 
the  invasion,  the  unscrupulous  methods  of  the  German 
chiefs,  the  tranquillity  with  which  their  submarines  were 
sinking  boats  filled  with  defenseless  passengers,  the  deeds 
of  the  aviators  who  were  hurling  bombs  upon  unguarded 
cities,  destroying  women  and  children — all  this  was  caus- 
ing the  events  of  revolutionary  terrorism  which,  years 
ago,  used  to  arouse  his  wrath,  to  sink  into  relative 
unimportance, 

"And  to  think,"  he  said,  "that  we  used  to  be  as  infuri- 
ated as  though  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end,  just 
because  someone  threw  a  bomb  at  a  grandee !" 

Those  titled  victims  had  had  certain  reprehensible 
qualities  which  had  justified  their  execution.  They  had 
died  in  consequence  of  acts  which  they  undertook,  know- 
ing well  what  the  punishment  would  be.  They  had 
brought  retribution  on  themselves  without  trying  to 
evade  it,  rarely  taking  any  precautions,  ^^''hile  the  ter- 
rorists of  this  war !  .  .  . 

With  the  violence  of  his  imperious  character,  the  old 
conservative  now  swung  to  the  opposite  extreme. 

"The  true  anarchists  are  yet  on  top,"  he  said  with  an 


410     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ironical  laugh.  "Those  who  terrified  us  formerly,  all 
put  together,  were  but  a  few  miserable  creatures.  .  .  . 
In  a  few  seconds,  these  of  our  day  kill  more  innocent 
people  than  those  others  did  in  thirty  years." 

The  gentleness  of  Tchernoff,  his  original  ideas,  his 
incoherencies  of  thought,  bounding  from  reflection  to 
word  without  any  preparation,  finally  won  Don  Marcelo 
so  completely  over  that  he  formed  the  habit  of  con- 
sulting him  about  all  his  doubts.  His  admiration  made 
him,  too,  overlook  the  source  of  certain  bottles  with 
which  Argensola  sometimes  treated  his  neighbor.  He 
was  delighted  to  have  Tchernoff  consume  these  sou- 
venirs of  the  time  when  he  was  living  at  swords*  points 
Avith  his  son. 

After  sampling  the  wine  from  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo, 
the  Russian  would  indulge  in  a  visionary  loquacity 
similar  to  that  of  the  night  when  he  evoked  the  fan- 
tastic cavalcade  of  the  four  horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse. 

What  his  new  convert  most  admired  was  his  facility 
for  making  things  clear,  and  fixing  them  in  the  imagina- 
tion. The  battle  of  the  Marne  with  its  subsequent  com- 
bats and  the  course  of  both  armies  were  events  easily 
explained.  ...  If  the  French  only  had  not  been  so 
fatigued  after  their  triumph  of  the  Mame!  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "But  human  powers,"  continued  Tchernoff,  "have 
their  limits,  and  the  French  soldier,  with  all  his  enthusi- 
asm, is  a  man  like  the  rest.  In  the  first  place,  the  most 
rapid  of  marches  from  the  East  to  the  North,  in  order 
to  resist  the  invasion  of  Belgium;  then  the  combats; 
then  the  swift  retreat  that  they  might  not  be  surrounded; 
finally  a  seven  days'  battle — and  all  this  in  a  period  of 
three  weeks,  no  more.  ...  In  their  moment  of  triumph, 
the  victors  lacked  the  legs  to  follow  up  their  advantage, 
and  they  lacked  the  cavalry  to  pursue  the  fugitives. 
Their  beasts  were  even  more  exhausted  than  the  men. 


IN  THE  STUDIO  411 

When  those  who  were  retreating  found  that  they  were 
being  spurred  on  with  lessening  tenacity,  they  had 
stretched  themselves,  half-dead  with  fatigue,  on  the  field, 
excavating  the  ground  and  forming  a  refuge  for  them- 
selves. The  French  also  flung  themselves  down,  scrap- 
ing the  soil  together  so  as  not  to  lose  what  they  had 
gained.  .  .  .  And  in  this  way  began  the  war  of  the 
trenches." 

Then  each  line,  with  the  intention  of  wrapping  itself 
around  that  of  the  enemy,  had  gone  on  prolonging  itself 
toward  the  Northeast,  and  from  these  successive  stretch- 
ings had  resulted  the  double  course  toward  the  sea — 
forming  the  greatest  battle  front  ever  known  to  history. 

When  Don  Marcelo  with  optimistic  enthusiasm  an- 
nounced the  end  of  the  war  in  the  following  Spring  or 
Summer — in  four  months  at  the  outside — the  Russian 
shook  his  head. 

"It  will  be  long  .  .  ,  very  long.  It  is  a  new  war,  the 
genuine  modern  warfare.  The  Germans  began  hostili- 
ties in  the  old  way  as  though  they  had  observed  nothing 
since  1870 — a  war  of  involved  movements,  of  battles 
in  the  open  field,  the  same  as  Aloltke  might  have  planned, 
imitating  Napoleon.  They  were  desirous  of  bringing 
it  to  a  speedy  conclusion,  and  were  sure  of  triumph. 
Why  employ  new  methods?  .  .  .  But  the  encounter  of 
the  Mame  twisted  their  plans,  making  them  shift  from 
the  aggressive  to  the  defensive.  They  then  brought  into 
service  all  that  the  war  staf?  had  learned  in  the  cam- 
paigns of  the  Japanese  and  Russians,  beginning  the 
war  of  the  trenches,  the  subterranean  struggle  which  is 
the  logical  outcome  of  the  reach  and  number  of  shots 
of  the  modem  armament.  The  conquest  of  half  a  mile 
of  territory  to-day  stands  for  more  than  did  the  assault 
of  a  stone  fortress  a  century  ago.  Neither  side  is  going 
to  make  any  headway  for  a  long  time.     Perhaps  they 


412     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

may  never  make  a  definite  advance.  The  war  is  bound 
to  be  long  and  tedious,  like  the  athletic  conquests  be- 
tween opponents  who  are  equally  matched." 

"But  it  will  have  to  come  to  an  end,  sometime,"  inter- 
polated Desnoyers. 

"Undoubtedly,  but  who  knows  when?  .  .  ,  And 
in  what  condition  will  they  both  be  when  it  is  all 
over?"  .  .  . 

He  was  counting  upon  a  rapid  finale  when  it  was 
least  expected,  through  the  exhaustion  of  one  of  the 
contestants,  carefully  dissimulated  until  the  last  moment. 

"Germany  will  be  vanquished,"  he  added  with  firm 
conviction.  "I  do  not  know  when  nor  how,  but  she  will 
fall  logically.  She  failed  in  her  master-stroke  in  not 
entering  Paris  and  overcoming  its  opposition.  All  the 
trumps  in  her  pack  of  cards  were  then  played.  She 
did  not  win,  but  continues  playing  the  game  because  she 
holds  many  cards,  and  she  will  prolong  it  for  a  long 
time  to  come.  .  .  .  But  what  she  could  not  do  at  first,  she 
will  never  be  able  to  do." 

For  Tchemoff,  the  final  defeat  did  not  mean  the  de- 
struction of  Germany  nor  the  annihilation  of  the  German 
people. 

"Excessive  patriotism  irritates  me,"  he  pursued. 
"Hearing  people  form  plans  for  the  definite  extinction 
of  Germany  seems  to  me  like  listening  to  the  Pan- 
Germanists  of  Berlin  when  they  talk  of  dividing  up  the 
continents." 

Then  he  summed  up  his  opinion. 

"Imperialism  will  have  to  be  crushed  for  the  sake  of 
the  tranquillity  of  the  world;  the  great  war  machine 
which  menaces  the  peace  of  nations  will  have  to  be  sup- 
pressed. Since  1870,  we  have  all  been  living  in  dread 
of  it.  For  forty  years,  the  war  has  been  averted,  but  in 
all  that  time,  what  apprehension  I"  .  .  , 


IN  THE  STUDIO  413 

What  was  most  irritating  Tchernoff  was  the  moral 
lesson  born  of  thi?  situation  which  had  ended  by  over- 
whelming the  world — the  glorification  of  power,  the 
sanctification  of  success,  the  triumph  of  materialism,  the 
respect  for  the  accomplished  fact,  the  mockery  of  the 
noblest  sentiments  as  though  they  were  merely  sonorous 
and  absurd  phrases,  the  reversal  of  moral  values  ...  a 
philosophy  of  bandits  which  pretended  to  be  the  last 
word  of  progress,  and  was  no  more  than  a  return  to 
despotism,  violence,  and  the  barbarity  of  the  most  primi- 
tive epochs  of  history. 

While  he  was  longing  for  the  suppression  of  the  repre- 
sentatives of  this  tendency,  he  would  not,  therefore,  de- 
mand the  extermination  of  the  German  people. 

"This  nation  has  great  merits  jumbled  with  bad  con- 
ditions inherited  from  a  not  far-distant,  barbarous  past. 
It  possesses  the  genius  of  organization  and  work,  and  is 
able  to  lend  great  service  to  humanity.  .  .  .  But  first  it  is 
necessary  to  give  it  a  douche — the  douche  of  downfall. 
The  Germans  are  mad  with  pride  and  their  madness 
threatens  the  security  of  the  world.  When  those  who 
have  poisoned  them  with  the  illusion  of  universal 
hegemony  have  disappeared,  when  misfortune  has  fresh- 
ened their  imagination  and  transformed  them  into  a 
community  of  humans,  neither  superior  nor  inferior  to 
the  rest  of  mankind,  they  will  become  a  tolerant  people, 
useful  .  .  .  and  who  knows  but  they  may  even  prove 
sympathetic !" 

According  to  Tchernoff,  there  was  not  in  existence 
to-day  a  more  dangerous  nation.  Its  political  organiza- 
tion was  converting  it  into  a  warrior  horde,  educated  by 
kicks  and  submitted  to  continual  humiliations  in  order 
that  the  will-power  which  always  resists  discipline  might 
be  completely  nullified. 

"It  is  a  nation  where  all  receive  blows  and  desire  to 


414     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

give  them  to  those  lower  down.  The  kick  that  the  Kaiser 
gives  is  transmitted  from  back  to  back  down  to  the  lowest 
rung  of  the  social  ladder.  The  blows  begin  in  the  school 
and  are  continued  in  the  barracks,  forming  part  of  the 
education.  The  apprenticeship  of  the  Prussian  Crown 
Princes  has  always  consisted  in  receiving  fisticuffs  and 
cowhidings  from  their  progenitor,  the  king.  The  Kaiser 
beats  his  children,  the  officer  his  soldiers,  the  father  his 
wife  and  children,  the  schoolmaster  his  pupils,  and  when 
the  superior  is  not  able  to  give  blows,  he  subjects  those 
under  him  to  the  torment  of  moral  insult." 

On  this  account,  when  they  abandoned  their  ordinary 
avocations,  taking  up  arms  in  order  to  fall  upon  another 
human  group,  they  did  so  with  implacable  ferocity. 

"Each  one  of  them,"  continued  the  Russian,  "carries 
on  his  back  the  marks  of  kicks,  and  when  his  turn  comes, 
he  seeks  consolation  in  passing  them  on  to  the  unhappy 
creatures  whom  war  puts  into  his  power.  This  nation  of 
war-lords,  as  they  love  to  call  themselves,  aspires  to  lord- 
ship, but  outside  of  the  country.  Within  it,  are  the  ones 
who  least  appreciate  human  dignity  and,  therefore,  long 
vehemently  to  spread  their  dominant  will  over  the  face 
of  the  earth,  passing  from  lackeys  to  lords." 

Suddenly  Don  Marcelo  stopped  going  with  such  fre- 
quency to  the  studio.  He  was  now  haunting  the  home 
and  office  of  the  senator,  because  this  friend  had  upset 
his  tranquillity.  Lacour  had  been  much  depressed  since 
the  heir  to  the  family  glory  had  broken  through  the  pro- 
tecting paternal  net  in  order  to  go  to  war. 

One  night,  while  dining  with  the  Desnoyers  family,  an 
idea  popped  into  his  head  which  filled  him  with  delight. 
"Would  you  like  to  see  your  son?"  He  needed  to  see 
Rene  and  had  begun  negotiating  for  a  permit  from  head- 
quarters which  would  allow  him  to  visit  the  front.  His 
son  belonged  to  the  same  army  division  as  Julio ;  perhaps 


IN  THE  STUDIO  415 

their  camps  were  rather  far  apart,  but  an  automobile 
makes  many  revolutions  before  it  reaches  the  end  of  its 
journey. 

It  was  not  necessary  to  say  more.  Desnoyers  instantly 
felt  the  most  overmastering  desire  to  see  his  boy,  since, 
for  so  many  months,  he  had  had  to  content  himself  w^ith 
reading  his  letters  and  studying  the  snap  shot  which  one 
of  his  comrades  had  made  of  his  soldier  son. 

From  that  time  on,  he  besieged  the  senator  as  though 
he  were  a  political  supporter  desiring  an  office.  He 
visited  him  in  the  mornings  in  his  home,  invited  him  to 
dinner  every  evening,  and  hunted  him  down  in  the  salons 
of  the  Luxembourg.  Before  the  first  word  of  greeting 
could  be  exchanged,  his  eyes  were  formulating  the  same 
interrogation.  .  .  .  "When  will  you  get  that  permit?" 

The  great  man  could  only  reply  by  lamenting  the  indif- 
ference of  the  military  department  toward  the  civilian 
element;  it  always  had  been  inimical  toward  parliamen- 
tarism. 

"Besides,  Joffre  is  showing  himself  most  unapproach- 
able ;  he  does  not  encourage  the  curious.  .  .  .  To-morrow 
I  will  see  the  President." 

A  few  days  later,  he  arrived  at  the  house  in  the  avenue 
Victor  Hugo,  with  an  expression  of  radiant  satisfaction 
that  filled  Don  Marcelo  with  joy. 

"It  has  come?" 

"It  has  come.  .  .  .  We  start  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

Desnoyers  went  the  following  afternoon  to  the  studio 
in  the  rue  de  la  Pompe. 

"I  am  going  to-morrow !" 

The  artist  was  very  eager  to  accompany  him.  Would 
it  not  be  possible  for  him  to  go,  too,  as  secretary  to  the 
senator?  .  .  .  Don  IMarcelo  smiled  benevolently.  The 
authorization  was  only  for  Lacour  and  one  companion. 


4i6    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

He  was  the  one  who  was  going  to  pose  as  secretary,  valet 
or  utility  man  to  his  future  relative-in-law. 

At  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  he  left  the  studio,  accom- 
panied to  the  elevator  by  the  lamentations  of  Argensola. 
To  think  that  he  could  not  join  that  expedition!  .  .  .  He 
believed  that  he  had  lost  the  opportunity  to  paint  his 
masterpiece. 

Just  outside  of  his  home,  he  met  Tchernoff.  Don  Mar- 
celo  was  in  high  good  humor.  The  certainty  that  he  was 
soon  going  to  see  his  son  filled  him  with  boyish  good 
spirits.  He  almost  embraced  the  Russian  in  spite  of  his 
slovenly  aspect,  his  tragic  beard  and  his  enormous  hat 
which  made  every  one  turn  to  look  after  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  avenue,  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  stood 
forth  against  a  sky  crimsoned  by  the  sunset.  A  red  cloud 
was  floating  around  the  monument,  reflected  on  its  white- 
ness with  purpling  palpitations. 

Desnoyers  recalled  the  four  horsemen,  and  all  that 
Argensola  had  told  him  before  presenting  him  to  the 
Russian. 

"Blood !"  he  shouted  jubilantly,  "All  the  sky  seems  to 
be  blood-red,  .  .  ,  It  is  the  apocalyptic  beast  who  has  re- 
ceived his  death-wound.    Soon  we  shall  see  him  die." 

Tchernoff  smiled,  too,  but  his  was  a  melancholy  smile. 

"No;  the  beast  does  not  die.  It  is  the  eternal  com- 
panion of  man.  It  hides,  spouting  blood,  forty  .  .  .  sixty 
...  a  hundred  years,  but  eventually  it  reappears.  All  that 
we  can  hope  is  that  its  wound  may  be  long  and  deep,  that 
it  may  remain  hidden  so  long  that  the  generation  that 
now  remembers  it  may  never  see  it  again." 


CHAPTER  III 


WAR 


Don  Marcelo  was  climbing  up  a  mountain  covered 
with  woods. 

The  forest  presented  a  tragic  desolation.  A  silent 
tempest  had  installed  itself  therein,  placing  everything  in 
violent  unnatural  positions.  Not  a  single  tree  still  pre- 
served its  upright  form  and  abundant  foliage  as  in  the 
days  of  peace.  The  groups  of  pines  recalled  the  columns 
of  ruined  temples.  Some  were  still  standing  erect,  but 
without  their  crowns,  like  shafts  that  might  have  lost 
their  capitals ;  others  were  pierced  like  the  mouthpiece  of 
a  flute,  or  like  pillars  struck  by  a  thunderbolt.  Some  had 
splintery  threads  hanging  around  their  cuts  like  used 
toothpicks. 

A  sinister  force  of  destruction  had  been  raging  among 
these  beeches,  spruce  and  oaks.  Great  tangles  of  their 
cut  boughs  were  cluttering  the  ground,  as  though  a  band 
of  gigantic  woodcutters  had  just  passed  by.  The  trunks 
had  been  severed  a  little  distance  from  the  ground  with 
a  clean  and  glistening  stroke,  as  though  with  a  single 
blow  of  the  axe.  Around  the  disinterred  roots  were 
quantities  of  stones  mixed  with  sod,  stones  that  had  been 
sleeping  in  the  recesses  of  the  earth  and  had  been  brought 
to  the  surface  by  explosions. 

At  intervals — gleaming  among  the  trees  or  blocking  the 
roadway  with  an  importunity  which  required  some  zig- 
zagging— was  a  series  of  pools,  all  alike,  of  regular  geo- 

4»7 


4i8     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

metrical  circles.  To  Desnoyers,  they  seemed  like  sunken 
basins  for  the  use  of  the  invisible  Titans  who  had  been 
hewing  the  forest.  Their  great  depth  extended  to  their 
very  edges.  A  swimmer  might  dive  into  these  lagoons 
without  ever  touching  bottom.  Their  water  was  greenish, 
still  water — rain  water  with  a  scum  of  vegetation  per- 
forated by  the  respiratory  bubbles  of  the  little  organisms 
coming  to  life  in  its  vitals. 

Bordering  the  hilly  pathway  through  the  pines,  were 
many  mounds  with  crosses  of  wood — tombs  of  French 
soldiers  topped  with  little  tricolored  flags.  Upon  these 
moss-covered  graves  were  the  old  kepis  of  the  gunners. 
The  ferocious  wood-chopper,  in  destroying  this  woods, 
had  also  blindly  demolished  many  of  the  ants  swarming 
around  the  trunks. 

Don  Marcelo  was  wearing  leggings,  a  broad  hat,  and 
on  his  shoulders  a  fine  poncho  arranged  like  a  shawl — 
garments  which  recalled  his  far-distant  life  on  the  ranch. 
Behind  him  came  Lacour  trying  to  preserve  his  senatorial 
dignity  in  spite  of  his  gasps  and  puffs  of  fatigue.  He 
also  was  wearing  high  boots  and  a  soft  hat,  but  he  had 
kept  to  his  solemn  frock-coat  in  order  not  to  abandon 
entirely  his  parliamentary  uniform.  Before  them 
marched  two  captains  as  guides. 

They  were  on  a  mountain  occupied  by  the  French 
artillery,  and  were  climbing  to  the  top  where  were 
hidden  cannons  and  cannons,  forming  a  line  some  miles 
in  length.  The  German  artillery  had  caused  the  wood- 
land ruin  around  the  visitors,  in  their  return  of  the 
French  fire.  The  circular  pools  were  the  hollows  dug  by 
the  German  shells  in  the  limy,  non-porous  soil  which 
preserved  all  the  runnels  of  rain. 

The  visiting  party  had  left  their  automobile  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain.  One  of  the  officers,  a  former  artillery- 
man, explained  this  precaution  to  them.    It  was  necessary 


WAR  419 

to  climb  this  roadway  very  cautiously.  They  were  within 
reach  of  the  enemy,  and  an  automobile  might  attract  the 
attention  of  their  gunners. 

"A  little  fatiguing,  this  climb,"  he  continued.  "Cour- 
age, Senator  Lacour !  .  .  .  We  are  almost  there." 

They  began  to  meet  artillerymen,  many  of  them  not  in 
uniform  but  wearing  the  military  kepis.  They  looked 
like  workmen  from  a  metal  factory,  foundrj'men  with 
jackets  and  pantaloons  of  corduroy.  Their  arms  were 
bare,  and  some  had  put  on  wooden  shoes  in  order  to  get 
over  the  mud  with  greater  security.  They  were  former 
iron  laborers,  mobilized  into  the  artillery  reserves.  Their 
sergeants  had  been  factory  overseers,  and  many  of  them 
officials,  engineers  and  proprietors  of  big  workshops. 

Suddenly  the  excursionists  stumbled  upon  the  iron  in- 
mates of  the  woods.  When  these  spoke,  the  earth  trem- 
bled, the  air  shuddered,  and  the  native  inhabitants  of  the 
forest,  the  crows,  rabbits,  butterflies  and  ants,  fled  in 
terrified  flight,  trying  to  hide  themselves  from  the  fear- 
ful con\'ulsion  which  seemed  to  be  bringing  the  world 
to  an  end.  Just  at  present,  the  bellowing  monsters  were 
silent,  so  that  they  came  upon  them  unexpectedly.  Some- 
thing was  sticking  up  out  of  the  greenery  like  a  gray 
beam ;  at  other  times,  this  apparition  would  emerge  from 
a  conglomeration  of  dry  trunks.  Around  this  obstacle 
was  cleared  ground  occupied  by  men  who  lived,  slept  and 
worked  about  this  huge  manufactory  on  wheels. 

The  senator,  who  had  written  verse  in  his  youth  and 
composed  oratorical  poetry  when  dedicating  various 
monuments  in  his  district,  saw  in  these  solitary  men  on 
the  mountain  side,  blackened  by  the  sun  and  smoke,  with 
naked  breasts  and  bare  arms,  a  species  of  priests  dedi- 
cated to  the  service  of  a  fatal  divinity  that  was  receiving 
from  their  hands  oflFerings  of  enormous  explosive  cap- 
sules, hurling  them  forth  in  thunderclaps. 


420     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Hidden  under  the  branches,  in  order  to  escape  the 
observation  of  the  enem^^'s  birdmen,  the  French  Ccinnon 
were  scattered  among  the  hills  and  hollows  of  the  high- 
land range.  In  this  herd  of  steel,  there  were  enormous 
pieces  with  wheels  reinforced  by  metal  plates,  somewhat 
like  the  farming  engines  which  Desnoyers  had  used  on 
his  ranch  for  plowing.  Like  smaller  beasts,  more  a'ljile 
and  playful  in  their  incessant  yelping,  the  groups  of  '75 
were  mingled  with  the  terrific  monsters. 

The  two  captains  had  received  from  the  general  of 
their  division  orders  to  show  Senator  Lacour  minutely 
the  workings  of  the  artillery,  and  Lacour  was  accepting 
their  observations  with  corresponding  gravity  while  his 
eyes  roved  from  side  to  side  in  the  hope  of  recognizing 
his  son.  The  interesting  thing  for  him  was  to  see  Ren6 
.  .  .  but  recollecting  the  official  pretext  of  his  journey,  he 
followed  submissively  from  cannon  to  cannon,  listening 
patiently  to  all  explanations. 

The  operators  next  showed  him  the  servants  of  these 
pieces,  great  oval  cylinders  extracted  from  subterranean 
storehouses  called  shelters.  These  storage  places  were 
deep  burrows,  oblique  wells  reinforced  with  sacks  of 
stones  and  wood.  They  served  as  a  refuge  to  those  off 
duty,  and  kept  the  munitions  away  from  the  enemy's 
shell.  An  artilleryman  exhibited  two  pouches  of  white 
cloth,  joined  together  and  very  full.  They  looked  like  a 
double  sausage  and  were  the  charge  for  one  of  the  large 
cannons.  The  open  packet  showed  some  rose-colored 
leaves,  and  the  senator  greatly  admired  this  dainty  paste 
which  looked  like  an  article  for  the  dressing  table  instead 
of  one  of  the  most  terrible  explosives  of  modern  warfare. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Lacour,  "that  if  I  had  found  one  of 
these  delicate  packets  on  the  street,  I  should  have  thought 
that  it  had  been  dropped  from  some  lady's  vanity  bag, 
or  by  some  careless  clerk  from  a  perfumery  shop  .  .  . 


WAR  421 

anything  but  an  explosive !  And  with  this  trifle  that  looks 
as  if  it  were  made  for  the  lips,  it  is  possible  to  blow  up 
an  edifice  !*'  .  .  . 

As  they  continued  their  visit  of  investigation,  they 
came  upon  a  partially  destroyed  round  tower  in  the  high- 
est part  of  the  mountain.  This  was  the  most  dangerous 
post.  From  it,  an  officer  was  examining  the  enemy's 
line  in  order  to  gauge  the  correctness  of  the  aim  of  the 
gunners.  While  his  comrades  were  under  the  ground 
or  hidden  by  the  branches,  he  was  fulfilling  his  mission 
from  this  visible  point. 

A  short  distance  from  the  tower  a  subterranean  pas- 
sageway opened  before  their  eyes.  They  descended 
through  its  murky  recesses  until  they  found  the  various 
rooms  excavated  in  the  ground.  One  side  of  the  moun- 
tain cut  in  points  formed  its  exterior  faqade.  Narrow 
little  windows,  cut  in  the  stone,  gave  light  and  air  to 
these  quarters. 

An  old  commandant  in  charge  of  the  section  came  out 
to  meet  them.  Desnoyers  thought  that  he  must  be  the 
floorwalker  of  some  big  department  store  in  Paris.  His 
manners  were  so  exquisite  and  his  voice  so  suave  that  he 
seemed  to  be  imploring  pardon  at  every  word,  or  address- 
ing a  group  of  ladies,  ofltering  them  goods  of  the  latest 
novelty.  But  this  impression  only  lasted  a  moment. 
This  soldier  with  gray  hair  and  near-sighted  glasses 
who,  in  the  midst  of  war,  was  retaining  his  customary 
manner  of  a  building  director  receiving  his  clients, 
showed  on  moving  his  arms,  some  bandages  and  surgical 
dressings  within  his  sleeves.  He  was  wounded  in  both 
wrists  by  the  explosion  of  a  shell,  but  he  was,  never- 
theless, sticking  to  his  post. 

"A  devil  of  a  honey-tongued,  syrupy  gentleman !" 
mused  Don  Marcelo.  "Yet  he  is  undoubtedly  an  excep- 
tional person!" 


422     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

By  this  time,  they  had  entered  into  the  main  office,  a 
vast  room  which  received  its  light  through  a  horizontal 
window  about  ten  feet  wide  and  only  a  palm  and  a  half 
high,  reminding  one  of  the  open  space  between  the  slats 
of  a  Venetian  blind.  Below  it  was  a  pine  table  filled 
with  papers  and  surrounded  by  stools.  When  occupying 
one  of  these  seats,  one's  eyes  could  sweep  the  entire  plain. 
On  the  walls  were  electric  apparatus,  acoustic  tubes  and 
telephones — many  telephones. 

The  Commandant  sorted  and  piled  up  the  papers,  offer- 
ing the  stools  with  drawing-room  punctilio. 

"Here,  Senator  Lacour." 

Desnoyers,  humble  attendant,  took  a  seat  at  his  side. 
The  Commandant  now  appeared  to  be  the  manager  of  a 
theatre,  preparing  to  exhibit  an  extraordinary  show.  He 
spread  upon  the  table  an  enormous  paper  which  repro- 
duced all  the  features  of  the  plain  extended  before  them 
— roads,  towns,  fields,  heights  and  valleys.  Upon  this 
map  was  a  triangular  group  of  red  lines  in  the  form  of 
an  open  fan ;  the  vertex  represented  the  place  where  they 
were,  and  the  broad  part  of  the  triangle  was  the  limit  of 
the  horizon  which  they  were  sweeping  with  their  eyes. 

"We  are  going  to  fire  at  that  grove,"  said  the  artillery- 
man, pointing  to  one  end  of  the  map.  "There  it  is,"  he 
continued,  designating  a  little  dark  line.  "Take  your 
glasses." 

But  before  they  could  adjust  the  binoculars,  the  Com- 
mandant placed  a  new  paper  on  top  of  the  map.  It  was 
an  enormous  and  somewhat  hazy  photograph  upon  whose 
plan  appeared  a  fan  of  red  lines  like  the  other  one. 

"Our  aviators,"  explained  the  gunner  courteously, 
"have  taken  this  morning  some  views  of  the  enemy's 
positions.  This  is  an  enlargement  from  our  photographic 
laboratory.  .  .  .  According  to  this  information,  there 
are  two  German  regiments  encamped  in  that  wood." 


WAR  423 

Don  Marcelo  saw  on  the  print  the  spot  of  woods,  and 
within  it  white  lines  which  represented  roads,  and  groups 
of  little  squares  which  were  blocks  of  houses  in  a  village. 
He  believed  he  must  be  in  an  aeroplane  contemplating  the 
earth  from  a  height  of  three  thousand  feet.  Then  he 
raised  the  glasses  to  his  eyes,  following  the  direction  of 
one  of  the  red  lines,  and  saw  enlarged  in  the  circle  of  the 
glass  a  black  bar,  somewhat  like  a  heavy  line  of  ink — 
the  grove,  the  refuge  of  the  foe. 

"Whenever  you  say,  Senator  Lacour,  we  will  begin,'* 
said  the  Commandant,  reaching  the  topmost  notch  of  his 
courtesy.    "Are  you  ready?" 

Desnoyers  smiled  slightly.  For  what  was  his  illustrious 
friend  to  make  himself  ready?  What  difference  could  it 
possibly  make  to  a  mere  spectator,  much  interested  in  the 
novelty  of  the  show?  .  .  . 

There  sounded  behind  them  numberless  bells,  gongs 
that  called  and  gongs  that  answered.  The  acoustic  tubes 
seemed  to  swell  out  with  the  gallop  of  words.  The  elec- 
tric wire  filled  the  silence  of  the  room  with  the  palpita- 
tions of  its  mysterious  life.  The  bland  Chief  was  no 
longer  occupied  with  his  guests.  They  conjectured  that 
he  was  behind  them,  his  mouth  at  the  telephone,  con- 
versing with  various  officials  some  distance  off.  Yet  the 
urbane  and  well-spoken  hero  was  not  abandoning  for  one 
moment  his  candied  courtesy. 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  when  you  are 
ready  to  begin?"  they  heard  him  saying  to  a  distant 
officer.    "I  shall  be  much  pleased  to  transmit  the  order." 

Don  Marcelo  felt  a  slight  nervous  tremor  near  one  of 
his  legs;  it  was  Lacour,  on  the  qui  vive  over  the  ap- 
proaching novelty.  They  were  going  to  begin  firing ;  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen  that  he  had  never  seen  before. 
The  cannons  were  above  their  heads ;  the  roughly  vaulted 


424     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

roof  was  going  to  tremble  like  the  deck  of  a  ship  when 
they  shot  over  it.  The  room  with  its  acoustic  tubes  and 
its  vibrations  from  the  telephones  was  like  the  bridge  of 
a  vessel  at  the  moment  of  clearing  for  action.  The  noise 
that  it  was  going  to  make !  .  .  .  A  few  seconds  flitted  by 
that  to  them  seemed  unusually  long  .  .  .  and  then  suddenly 
a  sound  like  a  distant  peal  of  thunder  which  appeared 
to  come  from  the  clouds.  Desnoyers  no  longer  felt  the 
nervous  twitter  against  his  knee.  The  senator  seemed 
surprised;  his  expression  seemed  to  say,  "And  is  that 
all  ?"  .  .  .  The  heaps  of  earth  above  them  had  deadened 
the  report,  so  that  the  discharge  of  the  great  machine 
seemed  no  more  than  the  blow  of  a  club  upon  a  mattress. 
Far  more  impressive  was  the  scream  of  the  projectile 
sounding  at  a  great  height  but  displacing  the  air  with 
such  violence  that  its  waves  reached  even  to  the  window. 

It  went  flying  .  .  .  flying,  its  roar  lessening.  Some  time 
passed  before  they  noticed  its  eflfects,  and  the  two  friends 
began  to  believe  that  it  must  have  been  lost  in  space.  "It 
will  not  strike  ...  it  will  not  strike,"  they  were  thinking. 
Suddenly  there  surged  up  on  the  horizon,  exactly  in  the 
spot  indicated  over  the  blur  of  the  woods,  a  tremendous 
column  of  smoke,  a  whirling  tower  of  black  vapor  fol- 
lowed by  a  volcanic  explosion. 

"How  dreadful  it  must  be  to  be  there !"  said  the  sen- 
ator. 

He  and  Desnoyers  were  experiencing  a  sensation  of 
animal  joy,  a  selfish  hilarity  in  seeing  themselves  in  such 
a  safe  place  several  yards  underground. 

"The  Germans  are  going  to  reply  at  any  moment,"  said 
Don  Marcelo  to  his  friend. 

The  senator  was  of  the  same  opinion.  Undoubtedly 
they  would  retaliate,  carrying  on  an  artillery  duel. 

All  of  the  French  batteries  had  opened  fire.  The 
mountain  was  thundering,  the  shell  whining,  the  horizon, 


WAR  425 

still  tranquil,  was  bristling  with  black,  spiral  columns. 
The  two  realized  more  and  more  how  snug  they  were  in 
this  retreat,  like  a  box  at  the  theatre. 

Someone  touched  Lacour  on  the  shoulder.  It  was  one 
of  the  captains  who  was  conducting  them  through  the 
front. 

"W'e  are  going  above,"  he  said  simply,  "You  must  see 
close  by  how  our  cannons  are  working.  The  sight  will  be 
well  worth  the  trouble." 

Above?  .  .  .  The  illustrious  man  was  as  perplexed,  as 
astonished  as  though  he  had  suggested  an  interplanetary 
trip.  Above,  when  the  enemy  was  going  to  reply  from 
one  minute  to  another?  .  .  . 

The  captain  explained  that  sub-Lieutenant  Lacour  was 
perhaps  awaiting  his  father.  By  telephone  they  had 
advised  his  battery  stationed  a  little  further  on ;  it  would 
be  necessary  to  go  now  in  order  to  see  him.  So  they 
again  climbed  up  to  the  light  through  the  moufli  of  the 
tunnel.  The  senator  then  drew  himself  up,  majestically 
erect. 

"They  are  going  to  fire  at  us,"  said  a  voice  in  his  in- 
terior. "The  foe  is  going  to  reply." 

But  he  adjusted  his  coat  like  a  tragic  mantle  and 
advanced  at  a  circumspect  and  solemn  pace.  If  those 
military  men,  adversaries  of  parliamentarism,  fancied 
that  they  were  going  to  laugh  up  their  sleeve  at  the 
timidity  of  a  civilian,  he  would  show  them  their  mistake ! 

Desnoyers  could  not  but  admire  the  resolution  with 
which  the  great  man  made  his  exit  from  the  shelter, 
exactly  as  if  he  were  going  to  march  against  the  foe. 

At  a  little  distance,  the  atmosphere  was  rent  into 
tumultuous  waves,  making  their  legs  tremble,  their  ears 
hum.  and  their  necks  feel  as  though  they  had  just  been 
struck.  They  both  thought  that  the  Germans  had  begun 
to  return  the  fire,  but  it  was  the  French  who  were  shoot- 


426    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ing.  A  feathery  stream  of  vapor  came  up  out  of  the 
woods  a  dozen  yards  away,  dissolving  instantly.  One  of 
the  largest  pieces,  hidden  in  the  nearby  thicket,  had  just 
been  discharged.  The  captains  continued  their  explana- 
tions without  stopping  their  journey.  It  was  necessary 
to  pass  directly  in  front  of  the  spitting  monster,  in  spite 
of  the  violence  of  its  reports,  so  as  not  to  venture  out 
into  the  open  woods  near  the  watch  tower.  They  were 
expecting  from  one  second  to  another  now,  the  response 
from  their  neighbors  across  the  way.  The  guide  accom- 
panying Don  Marcelo  congratulated  him  on  the  fearless- 
ness with  which  he  was  enduring  the  cannonading. 

"My  friend  is  well  acquainted  with  it,"  remarked  the 
senator  proudly.  "He  was  in  the  battle  of  the  Mame." 

The  twc  soldiers  evidently  thought  this  very  strange, 
considerir;/  Desnoyers'  advanced  age.  To  what  section 
had  he  Klonged?   In  what  capacity  had  he  served?  .  .  . 

"Mer-^Iy  as  a  victim,"  was  the  modest  reply. 

An  <''Xcer  came  running  toward  them  from  the  tower 
side,  nCross  the  cleared  space.  He  waved  his  kepi  several 
time*"  that  they  might  see  him  better.  Lacour  trembled 
for  lim.  The  enemy  might  descry  him ;  he  was  simply 
making  a  target  of  himself  by  cutting  across  that  open 
space  in  order  to  reach  them  the  sooner.  .  .  .  And  he 
.rembled  still  more  as  he  came  nearer.  ...   It  was  Rene! 

His  hands  returned  with  some  astonishment  the  strong, 
muscular  grasp.  He  noticed  that  the  outlines  of  his  son's 
face  were  more  pronounced,  and  darkened  with  the  tan 
of  camp  life.  An  air  of  resolution,  of  confidence  in  his 
own  powers,  appeared  to  emanate  from  his  person.  Six 
months  of  intense  life  had  transformed  him.  He  was  the 
same  but  broader-chested  and  more  stalwart.  The  gentle 
and  sweet  features  of  his  mother  were  lost  under  the 
virile  mask.  .  .  .  Lacour  recognized  with  pride  that  he 
now  resembled  himself. 


WAR  427 

After  greetings  had  been  exchanged,  Rene  paid  more 
attention  to  Don  Marcelo  than  to  his  father,  because  he 
reminded  him  of  Chichi.  He  inquired  after  her,  wishing 
to  know  all  the  details  of  her  life,  in  spite  of  their  ardent 
and  constant  correspondence. 

The  senator,  meanwhile,  still  under  the  influence  of  his 
recent  emotion,  had  adopted  a  somewhat  oratorical  air 
toward  his  son.  He  forthwith  improvised  a  fragment  of 
discourse  in  honor  of  that  soldier  of  the  Republic  bearing 
the  glorious  name  of  Lacour,  deeming  this  an  opportune 
time  to  make  known  to  these  professional  soldiers  the 
lofty  lineage  of  his  family. 

"Do  your  duty,  my  son.  The  Lacours  inherit  warrior 
traditions.  Remember  our  ancestor,  the  Deputy  of  the 
Convention  who  covered  himself  with  glory  in  the  de- 
fense of  Mayence!" 

While  he  was  discoursing,  they  had  started  forward, 
doubling  a  point  of  the  greenwood  in  order  to  get  behind 
the  cannons. 

Here  the  racket  was  less  violent.  The  great  engines, 
after  each  discharge,  were  letting  escape  through  the 
rear  chambers  little  clouds  of  smoke  like  those  from  a 
pipe.  The  sergeants  were  dictating  numbers,  communi- 
cated in  a  low  voice  by  another  gunner  who  had  a  tele- 
phone receiver  at  his  ear.  The  workmen  around  the 
cannon  were  obeying  silently.  They  would  touch  a  little 
wheel  and  the  monster  would  raise  its  grey  snout,  moving 
it  from  side  to  side  with  the  intelligent  expression  and 
agility  of  an  elephant's  trunk.  At  the  foot  of  the  nearest 
piece,  stood  the  operator,  rod  in  hand,  and  with  impassive 
face.  He  must  be  deaf,  yet  his  facial  inertia  was  stamped 
with  a  certain  authority.  For  him,  life  was  no  more  than 
a  series  of  shots  and  detonations.  He  knew  his  impor- 
tance. He  was  the  servant  of  the  tempest,  the  guardian 
of  the  thunderbolt. 


428     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"Fire!"  shouted  the  sergeant. 

And  the  thunder  broke  forth  in  fury.  Everything  ap- 
peared to  be  trembling,  but  the  two  visitors  were  by  this 
time  so  accustomed  to  the  din  that  the  present  uproar 
seemed  but  a  secondary  affair. 

Lacour  was  about  to  take  up  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course about  his  glorious  forefather  in  the  convention 
when  something  interfered. 

"They  are  firing,"  said  the  man  at  the  telephone  simply. 

The  two  officers  repeated  to  the  senator  this  news  from 
the  watch  tower.  Had  he  not  said  that  the  enemy  was 
going  to  fire?  .  .  .  Obeying  a  sane  instinct  of  preserva- 
tion, and  pushed  at  the  same  time  by  his  son,  he  found 
himself  in  the  refuge  of  the  battery.  He  certainly  did 
not  wish  to  hide  himself  in  this  cave,  so  he  remained 
near  the  entrance,  with  a  curiosity  which  got  the  best  of 
his  disquietude. 

He  felt  the  approach  of  the  invisible  projectile,  in  spite 
of  the  roar  of  the  neighboring  cannon.  He  perceived 
with  rare  sensibility  its  passage  through  the  air,  above 
the  other  closer  and  more  powerful  sounds.  It  was  a 
squealing  howl  that  was  swelling  in  intensity,  that  was 
opening  out  as  it  advanced,  filling  all  space.  Soon  it 
ceased  to  be  a  shriek,  becoming  a  rude  roar  formed  by 
divers  collisions  and  frictions,  like  the  descent  of  an 
electric  tram  through  a  hillside  road,  or  the  course  of  a 
train  which  passes  through  a  station  without  stopping. 

He  saw  it  approach  in  the  form  of  a  cloud,  bulging  as 
though  it  were  going  to  explode  over  the  battery.  With- 
out knowing  just  how  it  happened,  the  senator  suddenly 
found  himself  in  the  bottom  of  the  shelter,  his  hands  in 
cold  contact  with  a  heap  of  steel  cylinders  lined  up  like 
bottles.   They  were  projectiles. 

"If  a  German  shell,"  he  thought,  "should  explode 
above  this  burrow  .  .  .  what  a  frightful  blowing  up!"  .  . . 


WAR  429 

But  he  calmed  himself  by  reflecting  on  the  solidity  of 
the  arched  vault  with  its  beams  and  sacks  of  earth  several 
yards  thick.  Suddenly  he  was  in  absolute  darkness.  An- 
other had  sought  refuge  in  the  shelter,  obstructing  the 
light  with  his  body;  perhaps  his  friend  Desnoyers. 

A  year  passed  by  while  his  watch  was  registering  a 
single  second,  then  a  century  at  the  same  rate  .  .  .  and 
finally  the  awaited  thunder  burst  forth,  making  the 
refuge  vibrate,  but  with  a  kind  of  dull  elasticity,  as 
though  it  were  made  of  rubber.  In  spite  of  its  thud,  the 
explosion  wrought  horrible  damage.  Other  minor  ex- 
plosions, playful  and  whistling,  followed  behind  the 
first.  In  his  imagination,  Lacour  saw  the  cataclysm — a 
writhing  serpent,  vomiting  sparks  and  smoke,  a  species 
of  Wagnerian  monster  that  upon  striking  the  ground  was 
disgorging  thousands  of  fiery  little  snakes,  that  were 
covering  the  earth  with  their  deadly  contortions.  .  .  . 
The  shell  must  have  burst  nearby,  perhaps  in  the  very 
square  occupied  by  this  battery. 

He  came  out  of  the  shelter,  expecting  to  encounter  a 
sickening  display  of  dismembered  bodies,  and  he  saw  his 
son  smiling,  smoking  a  cigar  and  talking  with  Des- 
noyers. .  .  .  That  was  a  mere  nothing!  The  gunners 
were  tranquilly  finishing  the  charging  of  a  huge  piece. 
They  had  raised  their  eyes  for  a  moment  as  the  enemy's 
shell  went  screaming  by,  and  then  had  continued  their 
work. 

"It  must  have  fallen  about  three  hundred  yards  away," 
said  Rene  cheerfully. 

The  senator,  impressionable  soul,  felt  suddenly  filled 
with  heroic  confidence.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  bother 
about  his  personal  safety  when  other  men — just  like  him, 
only  differently  dressed — were  not  paying  the  slightest 
attention  to  the  danger. 

And  as  the  other  projectiles  soared  over  his  head  to 


430    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

lose  themselves  in  the  woods  with  the  explosions  of  a 
volcano,  he  remained  by  his  son's  side,  with  no  other 
sigtj  of  tension  than  a  slight  trembling  of  the  knees.  It 
seemed  to  him  now  that  it  was  only  the  French  missiles — 
because  they  were  on  his  side — that  were  hitting  the 
bull's  eye.  The  others  must  be  going  up  in  the  air  and 
losing  themselves  in  useless  noise.  Of  just  such  illusions 
is  valor  often  compounded!  .  .  .  "And  is  that  all?"  his 
eyes  seemed  to  be  asking. 

He  now  recalled  rather  shamefacedly  his  retreat  to  the 
shelter ;  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  could  live  in  the 
open,  the  same  as  Rene. 

The  German  missiles  were  getting  considerably  more 
frequent.  They  were  no  longer  lost  in  the  wood,  and 
their  detonations  were  sounding  nearer  and  nearer.  The 
two  officials  exchanged  glances.  They  were  responsible 
for  the  safety  of  their  distinguished  charge. 

"Now  they  are  warming  up,"  said  one  of  them. 

Rene,  as  though  reading  their  thoughts,  prepared  to  go. 
"Good-bye,  father!"  They  were  needing  him  in  his  bat- 
tery. The  senator  tried  to  resist;  he  wished  to  prolong 
the  interview,  but  found  that  he  was  hitting  against 
something  hard  and  inflexible  that  repelled  all  his  in- 
fluence. A  senator  amounted  to  very  little  with  people 
accustomed  to  discipline. 

"Farewell,  my  boy !  .  .  .  All  success  to  you !  .  .  .  Re- 
member who  you  are!" 

The  father  wept  as  he  embraced  his  son,  lamenting  the 
brevity  of  the  interview,  and  thinking  of  the  dangers 
awaiting  him. 

When  Rene  had  disappeared,  the  captains  again  recom- 
mended their  departure.  It  was  getting  late ;  they  ought 
to  reach  a  certain  cantonment  before  nightfall.  So  they 
went  down  the  hill  in  the  shelter  of  a  cut  in  the  moun- 
tain, seeing  the  enemy's  shells  flying  high  above  them. 


WAR  431 

In  a  hollow,  they  came  upon  several  groups  of  the 
famed  seventy-fives  spread  about  through  the  woods, 
hidden  by  piles  of  underbrush,  like  snapping  dogs,  howl- 
ing and  sticking  up  their  gray  muzzles.  The  great  cannon 
were  roaring  only  at  intervals,  while  the  steel  pack  of 
hounds  were  yelping  incessantly  without  the  slightest 
break  in  their  noisy  wrath — like  the  endless  tearing  of  a 
piece  of  cloth.  The  pieces  were  many,  the  volleys  dizzy- 
ing, and  the  shots  uniting  in  one  prolonged  shriek,  as  a 
series  of  dots  unite  to  form  a  single  line. 

The  chiefs,  stimulated  by  the  din,  were  giving  their 
orders  in  yells,  and  waving  their  arms  from  behind  the 
pieces.  The  cannon  were  sliding  over  the  motionless 
gun  carriages,  advancing  and  receding  like  automatic 
pistols.  Each  charge  dropped  an  empty  shell,  and  intro- 
duced a  fresh  one  into  the  smoking  chamber. 

Behind  the  battery,  the  air  was  racking  in  furious 
waves.  With  every  shot,  Lacour  and  his  companion 
received  a  blow  on  the  breast,  the  violent  contact  with  an 
invisible  hand,  pushing  them  backward  and  forward. 
They  had  to  adjust  their  breathing  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
concussions.  During  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second, 
between  the  passing  of  one  aerial  wave  and  the  advance 
of  the  next,  their  chests  felt  the  agony  of  vacuum.  Des- 
noyers  admired  the  baying  of  those  gray  dogs.  He  knew 
well  their  bite,  extending  across  many  kilometres.  Now 
they  were  fresh  and  at  home  in  their  own  kennels. 

To  Lacour  it  seemed  as  though  the  rows  of  cannon 
were  chanting  a  measure,  monotonous  and  fiercely  im- 
passioned that  must  be  the  martial  hymn  of  the  humanity 
of  prehistoric  times.  This  music  of  dry,  deafening, 
delirious  notes  was  awakening  in  the  two  what  is  sleeping 
in  the  depths  of  ever\-  soul — the  savagery  of  a  remote 
ancestry.  The  air  was  hot  with  acrid  odors,  pungent  and 
brutishly  intoxicating.     The  perfumes  from  the  explo- 


432     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

sions  were  penetrating  to  the  brain  through  the  mouth, 
the  eyes  and  the  ears. 

They  began  to  be  infected  with  the  same  ardor  as  the 
directors,  shouting  and  swinging  their  arms  in  the  midst 
of  the  thundering.  The  empty  capsules  were  mounting 
up  in  thick  layers  6ehind  the  cannon.  Fire !  .  .  .  always, 
fire! 

"We  must  sprinkle  them  well,"  yelled  the  chiefs.  "We 
must  give  a  good  soaking  to  the  groves  where  the  Boches 
are  hidden." 

So  the  mouths  of  '75  rained  without  interruption,  inun- 
dating the  remote  thickets  with  their  shells. 

Inflamed  by  this  deadly  activity,  frenzied  by  the  de- 
structive celerity,  dominated  by  the  dizzying  sway  of  the 
ruby  leaves,  Lacour  and  Desnoyers  found  themselves 
waving  their  hats,  leaping  from  one  side  to  another  as 
though  they  were  dancing  the  sacred  dance  of  death,  and 
shouting  with  mouths  dry  from  the  acrid  vapor  of  the 
powder.  .  .  .  "Hurrah!  .  .  .  Hurrah!" 

The  automobile  rode  all  the  afternoon  long,  stopping 
only  when  it  met  long  files  of  convoys.  It  traversed  un- 
cultivated fields  with  skeletons  of  dwellings,  and  ran 
through  burned  towns  which  were  no  more  than  a  succes- 
sion of  blackened  fagades. 

"Now  it  is  your  turn,"  said  the  senator  to  Desnoyers. 
"We  are  going  to  see  your  son." 

At  nightfall,  they  ran  across  groups  of  infantry,  sol- 
diers with  long  beards  and  blue  uniforms  discolored  by 
the  inclemency  of  the  weather.  They  were  returning 
from  the  intrenchments,  carrying  over  the  hump  of  their 
knapsacks,  spades,  picks  and  other  implements  for  re- 
moving the  ground,  that  had  acquired  the  importance  of 
arms  of  combat.  They  were  covered  with  mud  from 
head  to  foot.  All  looked  old  in  full  youth.  Their  joy  at 
returning  to  the  cantonment  after  a  week  in  the  trenches, 


WAR  433 

made  them  fill  the  silence  of  the  plain  with  songs  in  time 
to  the  tramp  of  their  nailed  boots.  Through  the  violet 
twilight  drifted  the  winged  strophes  of  the  Marseillaise, 
or  the  heroic  affirmations  of  the  Chant  du  Depart. 

"They  are  the  soldiers  of  the  Revolution,"  exclaimed 
Lacour  with  enthusiasm.   "France  has  returned  to  1792." 

The  two  captains  established  their  charges  for  the  night 
in  a  half-ruined  town  where  one  of  their  divisions  had 
its  headquarters,  and  then  took  their  leave.  Others  would 
act  as  their  escort  the  following  morning. 

The  two  friends  were  lodging  in  the  Hotel  de  la  Siren, 
an  old  inn  with  its  front  gnawed  by  shell-fire.  The  pro- 
prietor showed  them  with  pride  a  window  broken  in  the 
form  of  a  crater.  This  window  had  made  the  old 
tavern  sign — a  woman  of  iron  with  the  tail  of  a  fish — 
sink  into  insignificance.  As  Desnoyers  was  occupying 
the  room  next  to  the  one  that  had  received  the  mark  of 
the  shell,  the  inn-keeper  was  anxious  to  point  it  out  to 
them  before  they  went  to  bed. 

Everything  was  broken — walls,  floor,  roof.  The  fur- 
niture, a  pile  of  splinters  in  the  comer ;  the  flowered  wall 
paper,  a  fringe  of  tatters  hanging  from  the  walls. 
Through  an  enormous  hole  they  could  see  the  stars  and 
feel  the  chill  of  the  night.  The  owner  stated  that  this 
destruction  was  not  the  work  of  the  Germans,  but  was 
caused  by  a  projectile  from  one  of  the  seventy-fives 
when  repelling  the  invaders  from  the  village.  And  he 
beamed  on  the  ruin  with  patriotic  pride,  repeating: 

"There's  a  sample  of  French  markmanship  for  you! 
Flow  do  you  like  the  workings  of  the  seventy-fives?  .  .  . 
What  do  you  think  of  that  now?"  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  Don  Marcelo 
slept  badly,  excited  by  the  thought  that  his  son  was  not 
far  away. 

An  hour  before  daybreak,  they  left  the  village  in  an 


434     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

automobile,  guided  by  another  official.  On  both  sides  of 
the  road,  they  saw  camps  and  camps.  They  left  behind 
the  parks  of  munitions,  passed  the  third  line  of  troops, 
and  then  the  second.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  men 
were  bivouacking  there  in  the  open,  improvising  as  best 
they  could  their  habitations.  These  human  ant-hills 
seemed  vaguely  to  recall,  with  the  variety  of  uniforms 
and  races,  some  of  the  mighty  invasions  of  history;  but 
it  was  not  a  nation  en  marche.  The  exodus  of  people 
takes  with  it  the  women  and  children.  Here  there  were 
nothing  but  men,  men  everywhere. 

All  kinds  of  housing  ever  used  by  humanity  were  here 
utilized,  these  military  assemblages  beginning  with  the 
cave.  Caverns  and  quarries  were  serving  as  barracks. 
Some  low  huts  recalled  the  American  ranch ;  others,  high 
and  conical,  were  facsimiles  of  the  gurbi  of  Africa. 
Many  of  the  soldiers  had  come  from  the  colonies ;  some 
had  been  living  as  business  men  in  the  new  world,  and 
upon  having  to  provide  a  house  more  stable  than  the 
canvas  tent,  had  recalled  the  architecture  of  the  tribes 
with  which  they  had  had  dealings.  In  this  conglomerate 
of  combatants,  there  were  also  Moors,  blacks  and  Asi- 
atics who  were  accustomed  to  live  outside  the  cities  and 
had  acquired  in  the  open  a  physical  superiority  which 
made  them  more  masterful  than  the  civilized  peoples. 

Near  the  river  beds  was  flapping  white  clothing  hung 
out  to  dry.  Rows  of  men  with  bared  breasts  were  out 
in  the  morning  freshness,  leaning  over  the  streams, 
washing  themselves  with  noisy  ablutions  followed  by 
vigorous  rubbings.  .  .  .  On  a  bridge  was  a  soldier  writing, 
utilizing  a  parapet  as  a  table.  .  .  .  The  cooks  were  mov- 
ing around  their  savory  kettles,  and  a  warm  exhalation 
of  morning  soup  was  mixed  with  the  resinous  perfume 
of  the  trees  and  the  smell  of  the  damp  earth. 

Long,   low  barracks   of    wood    and    zinc    served   the 


WAR  435 

cavalry  and  artillery  for  their  animals  and  stores.  In  the 
open  air,  the  soldiers  were  currying  and  shoeing  the 
glossy,  plump  horses  which  the  trench-war  was  maintain- 
ing in  placid  obesity. 

"If  they  had  only  been  like  that  at  the  battle  of  the 
Mame !"  sighed  Desnoyers  to  his  friend. 

Now  the  cavalry  was  leading  an  existence  of  inter- 
minable rest.  The  troopers  were  fighting  on  foot,  and 
finding  it  necessarj'  to  exercise  their  steeds  to  keep  them 
from  getting  sick  with  their  full  mangers. 

There  were  spread  over  the  fields  several  aeroplanes, 
like  great,  gray  dragon  flies,  poised  for  the  flight.  Many 
of  the  men  were  grouped  around  them.  The  farmers, 
transformed  into  soldiers,  were  watching  with  great 
admiration  their  comrade  charged  with  the  management 
of  these  machines.  They  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the 
wizards  so  venerated  and  feared  in  all  the  countryside. 

Don  Marcelo  was  struck  by  the  general  transformation 
in  the  French  uniforms.  All  were  now  clad  in  gray-blue, 
from  head  to  foot.  The  trousers  of  bright  scarlet  cloth, 
the  red  kepis  which  he  had  hailed  with  such  joy  in  the 
expedition  of  the  Marne,  no  longer  existed.  All  the  men 
passing  along  the  roads  were  soldiers.  All  the  vehicles, 
even  the  ox-carts,  were  guided  by  military  men. 

Suddenly  the  automobile  stopped  before  some  ruined 
houses  blackened  by  fire. 

"Here  we  are,"  announced  the  official,  "Now  we  shall 
have  to  walk  a  little." 

The  senator  and  his  friend  started  along  the  highway. 

"Not  that  way,  no!"  the  guide  turned  to  say  grimly. 
"That  road  is  bad  for  the  health.  We  must  keep  out  of 
the  currents  of  air." 

He  further  explained  that  the  Germans  had  their  can- 
non and  intrenchments  at  the  end  of  this  highroad  which 


436    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

sloped  suddenly  and  again  appeared  as  a  white  ribbon  on 
the  horizon  line  between  two  rows  of  trees  and  burned 
houses.  The  pale  morning  light  with  its  hazy  mist  was 
sheltering  them  from  the  enemy's  fire.  On  a  sunny  day, 
the  arrival  of  their  automobile  would  have  been  saluted 
with  a  shell.  "That  is  war,"  he  concluded.  "One  is 
always  near  to  death  without  seeing  it." 

The  two  recalled  the  warning  of  the  general  with 
whom  they  had  dined  the  day  before :  "Be  very  careful ! 
The  war  of  the  trenches  is  treacherous." 

In  the  sweep  of  plains  r.nrolled  before  them,  not  a  man 
was  visible.  It  seemed  like  a  country  Sunday,  when  the 
farmers  are  in  their  homes,  and  the  land  scene  lying  in 
silent  meditation.  Some  shapeless  objects  could  be  seen 
in  the  fields,  like  agricultural  implements  deserted  for  a 
day  of  rest.  Perhaps  they  were  broken  automobiles,  or 
artillery  carriages  destroyed  by  the  force  of  their  volleys. 

"This  way,"  said  the  officer,  who  had  added  four  sol- 
diers to  the  party  to  carry  the  various  bags  and  packages 
which  Desnoyers  had  brought  out  on  the  roof  of  the 
automobile. 

They  proceeded  in  a  single  file  the  length  of  a  wall  of 
blackened  bricks,  down  a  steep  hill.  After  a  few  steps 
the  surface  of  the  ground  was  about  to  their  knees; 
further  on,  up  to  their  waists,  and  thus  they  disappeared 
within  the  earth,  seeing  above  their  heads,  only  a  narrow 
strip  of  sky.  They  were  now  under  the  open  field,  hav- 
ing left  behind  them  the  mass  of  ruins  that  hid  the 
entrance  of  the  road.  They  were  advancing  in  an  absurd 
way,  as  though  they  scorned  direct  lines — in  zig-zags,  in 
curves,  in  angles.  Other  pathways,  no  less  complicated, 
branched  off  from  this  ditch  which  was  the  central  ave- 
nue of  an  immense  subterranean  cavity.  They  walked 
,  .  and  walked  .  .  .  and  walked.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
went  by,  a  half,  an  entire  hour.    Lacour  and  his  friend 


WAR  437 

thought  longingly  of  the  roadways  flanked  with  trees, 
of  their  tramp  in  the  open  air  where  they  could  see  the 
sky  and  meadows.  They  were  not  going  twenty  steps  in 
the  same  direction.  The  official  marching  ahead  was 
every  moment  vanishing  around  a  new  bend.  Those  who 
were  coming  behind  were  panting  and  talking  unseen, 
having  to  quicken  their  steps  in  order  not  to  lose  sight 
of  the  party.  Every  now  and  then  they  had  to  halt  in 
order  to  unite  and  count  the  little  band,  to  make  sure  that 
no  one  had  been  lost  in  a  transverse  gallery.  The  ground 
was  exceedingly  slippery,  in  some  places  almost  liquid 
mud,  white  and  caustic  like  the  drip  from  the  scaffolding 
of  a  house  in  the  course  of  construction. 

The  thump  of  their  footsteps,  and  the  friction  of  their 
shoulders,  brought  down  chunks  of  earth  and  smooth 
stones  from  the  sides.  Little  by  little  they  climbed 
through  the  main  artery  of  this  underground  body  and  the 
veins  connected  with  it.  Again  they  were  near  the  sur- 
face where  it  required  but  little  effort  to  see  the  blue 
above  the  earthworks.  But  here  the  fields  were  unculti- 
vated, surrounded  with  wire  fences,  yet  with  the  same 
appearance  of  Sabbath  calm.  Knowing  by  sad  experience 
what  curiosity  oftentimes  cost,  the  official  would  not 
permit  them  to  linger  here.  "Keep  right  ahead !  Forward 
march !" 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  party  kept  doggedly  on 
until  the  senior  members  became  greatly  bewildered  and 
fatigued  by  their  serpentine  meanderings.  They  could 
no  longer  tell  whether  they  were  advancing  or  receding, 
the  sudden  steeps  and  the  continual  turning  bringing  on 
an  attack  of  vertigo. 

"Have  we  much  further  to  go  ?"  asked  the  senator. 

"There !"  responded  the  guide,  pointing  to  some  heaps 
of  earth  above  them.  "There"  was  a  bell  tower  sur- 
rounded by  a  few  charred  houses  that  could  be  seen  a 


438     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

long  ways  off — the  remains  of  a  hamlet  which  had  been 
taken  and  retaken  by  both  sides. 

By  going  in  a  direct  line  on  the  surface  they  would 
have  compassed  this  distance  in  half  an  hour.  To  the 
angles  of  the  underground  road,  arranged  to  impede  the 
advance  of  an  enemy,  there  had  been  added  the  obstacles 
of  campaign  fortification,  tunnels  cut  with  wire  lattice 
work,  large  hanging  cages  of  wire  which,  on  falling, 
could  block  the  passage  and  enable  the  defenders  to  open 
fire  across  their  gratings. 

They  began  to  meet  soldiers  with  packs  and  pails  of 
water  who  were  soon  lost  in  the  tortuous  cross  roads. 
Some,  seated  on  piles  of  wood,  were  smiling  as  they  read 
a  little  periodical  published  in  the  trenches. 

The  soldiers  stepped  aside  to  make  way  for  the  visiting 
procession,  bearded  and  curious  faces  peeping  out  of  the 
alleyways.  Afar  off  sounded  a  crackling  of  short  snaps 
as  though  at  the  end  of  the  winding  lanes  were  a  shooting 
lodge  where  a  group  of  sportsmen  were  killing  pigeons. 

The  morning  was  still  cloudy  and  cold.  In  spite  of  the 
humid  atmosphere,  a  buzzing  like  that  of  a  horsefly 
hummed  several  times  above  the  two  visitors. 

"Bullets !"  said  their  conductor  laconically. 

Desnoyers  meanwhile  had  lowered  his  head  a  little.  He 
knew  perfectly  well  that  insectivorous  sound.  The  sen- 
ator walked  on  more  briskly,  temporarily  forgetting  his 
weariness. 

They  came  to  a  halt  before  a  lieutenant-colonel  who 
received  them  like  an  engineer  exhibiting  his  workshops.. 
like  a  naval  officer  showing  off  the  batteries  and  turrets 
of  his  battleships.  He  was  the  Chief  of  the  battalion 
occupying  this  section  of  the  trenches.  Don  Marcelo 
studied  him  with  special  interest,  knowing  that  his  son 
was  under  his  orders. 

To  the  two  friends,  these  subterranean  fortifications 


WAR  439 

bore  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  lower  parts  of  a  vessel. 
They  passed  from  trench  to  trench  of  the  last  line,  the 
oldest — dark  galleries  into  which  penetrated  streaks  of 
light  across  the  loopholes  and  broad,  low  windows  of  the 
mitrailleuse.  The  long  line  of  defense  formed  a  tunnel 
cut  by  short,  open  spaces.  They  had  to  go  stumbling 
from  light  to  darkness,  and  from  darkness  to  light  with 
a  visual  suddenness  very  fatiguing  to  the  eyes.  The 
ground  was  higher  in  the  open  spaces.  There  were 
wooden  benches  placed  against  the  sides  so  that  the 
observers  could  put  out  the  head  or  examine  the  land- 
scape by  means  of  the  periscope.  The  enclosed  space 
answered  both  for  batteries  and  sleeping  quarters. 

As  the  enemy  had  been  repelled  and  more  ground  had 
been  gained,  the  combatants  who  had  been  living  all 
winter  in  these  first  quarters,  had  tried  to  make  them- 
selves more  comfortable.  Over  the  trenches  in  the  open 
air,  they  had  laid  beams  from  the  ruined  houses;  over 
the  beams,  planks,  doors  and  windows,  and  on  top  of  the 
wood,  layers  of  sacks  of  earth.  These  sacks  were  cov- 
ered by  a  top  of  fertile  soil  from  which  sprouted  grass 
and  herbs,  giving  the  roofs  of  the  trenches  an  appearance 
of  pastoral  placidity.  The  temporary  arches  could  thus 
resist  the  shock  of  the  obuses  which  went  ploughing  into 
the  earth  without  causing  any  special  damage.  When 
an  explosion  was  pounding  too  noisily  and  weakening  the 
structure,  the  troglodytes  would  swarm  out  in  the  night 
like  watchful  ants,  and  skilfully  readjust  the  roof  of  their 
primitive  dwellings. 

Everything  appeared  clean  with  that  simple  and  rather 
clumsy  cleanliness  exercised  by  men  living  far  from 
women  and  thrown  upon  their  own  resources.  The  gal- 
leries were  something  like  the  cloisters  of  a  monastery, 
the  corridors  of  a  prison,  and  the  middle  sections  of  a 
ship.    Their  floors  were  a  half  yard  lower  than  that  ot 


440     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  open  spaces  which  joined  the  trenches  together.  In 
order  that  the  officers  might  avoid  so  many  ups  and 
downs,  some  planks  had  been  laid,  forming  a  sort  of 
scaffolding  from  doorAvay  to  doorway. 

Upon  the  approach  of  their  Chief,  the  soldiers  formed 
themselves  in  line,  their  heads  being  on  a  level  with  the 
waist  of  those  passing  over  the  planks.  Desnoyers  ran 
his  eye  hungrily  over  the  file  of  men.  Where  could  Julio 
be?.  .  . 

He  noticed  the  individual  contour  of  the  different  re- 
doubts. They  all  seemed  to  have  been  constructed  in 
about  the  same  way,  but  their  occupants  had  modified 
them  with  their  special  personal  decorations.  The  ex- 
teriors were  always  cut  with  loopholes  in  which  there 
were  guns  pointed  toward  the  enemy,  and  windows  for 
the  mitrailleuses.  The  watchers  near  these  openings 
were  looking  over  the  lonely  landscape  like  quarter- 
masters surveying  the  sea  from  the  bridge.  Within  were 
the  armories  and  the  sleeping  rooms — three  rows  of 
berths  made  with  planks  like  the  beds  of  seamen.  The 
desire  for  artistic  ornamentation  which  even  the  simplest 
souls  always  feel,  had  led  to  the  embellishment  of  the 
underground  dwellings.  Each  soldier  had  a  private  mu- 
seum made  with  prints  from  the  papers  and  colored 
postcards.  Photographs  of  soubrettes  and  dancers  with 
their  painted  mouths  smiled  from  the  shiny  cardboard, 
enlivening  the  chaste  aspect  of  the  redoubt. 

Don  Marcelo  was  growing  more  and  more  impatient  at 
seeing  so  many  hundreds  of  men,  but  no  Julio.  The  sen- 
ator, complying  with  his  imploring  glance,  spoke  a  few 
words  to  the  chief  preceding  him  with  an  aspect  of  great 
deference.  The  official  had  at  first  to  think  very  hard  to 
recall  Julio  to  mind,  but  he  soon  remembered  the  exploits 
of  Sergeant  Desnoyers.  "An  excellent  soldier,"  he  said. 
**He  will  be  sent  for  immediately.  Senator  Lacour.  .  . 


WAR  441 

He  is  on  duty  now  with  his  section  in  the  first  line 
trenches." 

The  father,  in  his  anxiety  to  see  him,  proposed  that 
they  betake  themselves  to  that  advanced  site,  but  his 
petition  made  the  Chief  and  the  others  smile.  Those  open 
trenches  within  a  hundred  or  fifty  yards  from  the  enemy, 
with  no  other  defense  but  barbed  wire  and  sacks  of 
earth,  were  not  for  the  visits  of  civilians.  They  were 
always  filled  with  mud ;  the  visitors  would  have  to  crawl 
around  exposed  to  bullets  and  under  the  dropping  chunks 
of  earth  loosened  by  the  shells.  None  but  the  combatants 
could  get  around  in  these  outposts. 

"It  is  always  dangerous  there,"  said  the  Chief.  "There 
is  always  random  shooting.  .  .  .  Just  listen  to  the  firing !" 

Desnoyers  indeed  perceived  a  distant  crackling  that  he 
had  not  noted  before,  and  he  felt  an  added  anguish  at  the 
thought  that  his  son  must  be  in  the  thick  of  it.  Realiza- 
tion of  the  dangers  to  which  he  must  be  daily  exposed, 
now  stood  forth  in  high  relief.  What  if  he  should  die  in 
the  intervening  moments,  before  he  could  see  him?  .  .  . 

Time  dragged  by  with  desperate  sluggishness  for  Don 
Marcelo.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  messenger  who  had 
been  despatched  for  him  would  never  arrive.  He  paid 
scarcely  any  attention  to  the  affairs  which  the  Chief  was 
so  courteously  showing  them — the  caverns  which  served 
the  soldiers  as  toilet  rooms  and  bathrooms  of  most  primi- 
tive arrangement,  the  cave  with  the  sign,  "Cafe  de  la 
Victoire,"  another  in  fanciful  lettering,  "Theatre."  .  .  . 
Lacour  was  taking  a  lively  interest  in  all  this,  lauding  the 
French  gaiety  which  laughs  and  sings  in  the  presence  of 
danger,  while  his  friend  continued  brooding  about  Julio. 
When  would  he  ever  see  him  ?  .  .  . 

They  stopped  near  one  of  the  embrasures  of  a 
machine-gun  position  stationing  themselves  at  the  recom- 


442     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

wiendations  of  the  soldiers,  on  both  sides  of  the  horizontal 
opening,  keeping  their  bodies  well  back,  but  putting  their 
heads  far  enough  forward  to  look  out  with  one  eye.  They 
saw  a  very  deep  excavation  and  the  opposite  edge  of 
ground.  A  short  distance  away  were  several  rows  of 
X's  of  wood  united  by  barbed  wire,  forming  a  compact 
fence.  About  three  hundred  feet  further  on,  was  a 
second  wire  fence.  There  reigned  a  profound  silence 
here,  a  silence  of  absolute  loneliness  as  though  the  world 
was  asleep. 

"There  are  the  trenches  of  the  Boches,"  said  the  Com- 
mandant, in  a  low  tone. 

"Where?"  asked  the  senator,  making  an  effort  to  see. 

The  Chief  pointed  to  the  second  wire  fence  which 
Lacour  and  his  friend  had  supposed  belonged  to  the 
French.     It  was  the  German  intrenchment  line. 

"We  are  only  a  hundred  yards  away  from  them,"  he 
continued,  "but  for  some  time  they  have  not  been  attack- 
ing from  this  side." 

The  visitors  were  greatly  moved  at  learning  that  the 
foe  was  such  a  short  distance  off,  hidden  in  the  ground 
in  a  mysterious  invisibility  which  made  it  all  the  more 
terrible.  What  if  they  should  pop  out  now  with  their 
saw-edged  bayonets,  fire-breathing  liquids  and  asphyxiat- 
ing bombs  to  assault  this  stronghold !  .  .  . 

From  this  window  they  could  observe  more  clearly  the 
intensity  of  the  firing  on  the  outer  line.  The  shots  ap- 
peared to  be  coming  nearer.  The  Commandant  brusquely 
ordered  them  to  leave  their  observatory,  fearing  that  the 
fire  might  become  general.  The  soldiers,  with  their  cus- 
tomary promptitude,  without  receiving  any  orders,  ap- 
proached their  guns  which  were  in  horizontal  position, 
pointing  through  the  loopholes. 

Again  the  visitors  walked  in  single  file,  going  down  into 
cavernous  spaces  that  had  been  the  old  wine-cellars  of 


WAR  443 

former  houses.  The  officers  had  taken  up  their  abode  in 
these  dens,  utilizing  all  the  residue  of  the  ruins.  A  street 
door  on  two  wooden  horses  served  as  a  table ;  the  ceil- 
ings and  walls  were  covered  with  cretonnes  from  the 
Paris  warehouses ;  photographs  of  women  and  children 
adorned  the  side  wall  between  the  nickeled  glitter  of 
telegraphic  and  telephonic  instruments. 

Desnoyers  saw  above  one  door  an  ivory  crucifix,  yel- 
lowed with  years,  probably  with  centuries,  transmitted 
from  generation  to  generation,  that  must  have  witnessed 
many  agonies  of  soul.  In  another  den  he  noticed  in  a 
conspicuous  place  a  horseshoe  with  seven  holes.  Re- 
ligious creeds  were  spreading  their  wings  very  widely  in 
this  atmosphere  of  danger  and  death,  and  yet  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  grotesque  superstitions  were  acquiring 
new  values  without  any  one  laughing  at  them. 

Upon  leaving  one  of  the  cells,  in  the  middle  of  an  open 
space,  the  yearning  father  met  his  son.  He  knew  that  it 
must  be  Julio  by  the  Chief's  gesture  and  because  the  smil- 
ing soldier  was  coming  toward  him,  holding  out  his 
hands ;  but  this  time  his  paternal  instinct  which  he  had 
heretofore  considered  an  infallible  thing,  had  given  him 
no  warning.  How  could  he  recognize  Julio  in  that 
sergeant  whose  feet  were  two  cakes  of  moist  earth,  whose 
faded  cloak  was  a  mass  of  tatters  covered  with  mud, 
even  up  to  the  shoulders,  smelling  of  damp  wool  and 
leather?  .  .  .  After  the  first  embrace,  he  drew  back  his 
head  in  order  to  get  a  good  look  at  him  without  letting 
go  of  him.  His  olive  pallor  had  turned  to  a  bronze  tone. 
He  was  growing  a  beard,  a  beard  black  and  curly,  which 
reminded  Don  Marcelo  of  his  father-in-law.  The 
centaur,  Madariaga,  had  certainly  come  to  life  in  this 
warrior  hardened  by  camping  in  the  open  air.  At  first, 
the  father  grieved  over  his  dirty  and  tired  aspect,  but  a 
second  glance  made  him  sure  that  he  was  now  far  more 


444    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

handsome  and  interesting  than  in  his  days  of  society 
glory. 

"What  do  you  need?  .  .  .  What  do  you  want?" 

His  voice  was  trembling  with  tenderness.  He  was 
speaking  to  the  tanned  and  robust  combatant  in  the  same 
tone  that  he  was  wont  to  use  twenty  years  ago  when, 
holding  the  child  by  the  hand,  he  had  halted  before  the 
preserve  cupboards  of  Buenos  Aires. 

"Would  you  like  money?"  .  .  . 

He  had  brought  a  large  sum  with  him  to  give  to  his 
son,  but  the  soldier  gave  a  shrug  of  indifference  as 
though  he  had  offered  him  a  plaything.  He  had  never 
been  so  rich  as  at  this  moment;  he  had  a  lot  of  money 
in  Paris  and  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  it — he 
didn't  need  anything. 

"Send  me  some  cigars  .  .  .  for  me  and  my  comrades." 

He  was  constantly  receiving  from  his  mother  great 
baskets  full  of  choice  goodies,  tobacco  and  clothing.  But 
he  never  kept  anything ;  all  was  passed  on  to  his  fellow- 
warriors,  sons  of  poor  families  or  alone  in  the  world. 
His  munificence  had  spread  from  his  intimates  to  the 
company,  and  from  that  to  the  entire  battalion.  Don 
Marcelo  divined  his  great  popularity  in  the  glances  and 
smiles  of  the  soldiers  passing  near  them.  He  was  the 
generous  son  of  a  millionaire,  and  this  popularity  seemed 
to  include  even  him  when  the  news  went  around  that  the 
father  of  Sergeant  Desnoyers  had  arrived — a  potentate 
who  possessed  fabulous  wealth  on  the  other  side  of  the 
sea. 

"I  guessed  that  you  would  want  cigars,"  chuckled  the 
old  man. 

And  his  gaze  sought  the  bags  brought  from  the  auto- 
mobile through  the  windings  of  the  underground  road. 

All  of  the  son's  valorous  deeds,  extolled  and  magnified 


WAR  445 

by  Argensola,  now  came  trooping  into  his  mind.  He  had 
the  original  hero  before  his  very  eyes. 

"Are  you  content,  satisfied?  .  .  .  You  do  not  repent  of 
your  decision?" 

"Yes,  I  am  content,  father  .  .  .  very  content." 

Julio  spoke  without  boasting,  modestly.  His  life  was 
very  hard,  but  just  like  that  of  millions  of  other  men.  In 
his  section  of  a  few  dozens  of  soldiers  there  were  many 
superior  to  him  in  intelligence,  in  studiousness,  in  char- 
acter ;  but  they  were  all  courageously  undergoing  the  test, 
experiencing  the  satisfaction  of  duty  fulfilled.  The  com- 
mon danger  was  helping  to  develop  the  noblest  virtues  of 
these  men.  Never,  in  times  of  peace,  had  he  known  such 
comradeship.  What  magnificent  sacrifices  he  had  wit- 
nessed ! 

"When  all  this  is  over,  men  will  be  better  .  .  .  more 
generous.    Those  who  survive  will  do  great  things." 

Yes,  of  course,  he  was  content.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  was  tasting  the  delights  of  knowing  that  he 
was  a  useful  being,  that  he  was  good  for  something,  that 
his  passing  through  the  world  would  not  be  fruitless. 
He  recalled  with  pity  that  Desnoyers  who  had  not  known 
how  to  occupy  his  empty  life,  and  had  filled  it  with  every 
kind  of  frivolity.  Now  he  had  obligations  that  were  tax- 
ing all  his  powers ;  he  was  collaborating  in  the  formation 
of  a  future.    He  was  a  man  at  last  1 

"I  am  content,"  he  repeated  with  conviction. 

His  father  believed  him,  yet  he  fancied  that,  in  a  comer 
of  that  frank  glance,  he  detected  something  sorrowful,  a 
memory  of  a  past  which  perhaps  often  forced  its  way 
among  his  present  emotions.  There  flitted  through  his 
mind  the  lovely  figure  of  Madame  Laurier.  Her  charm 
was,  doubtless,  still  haunting  his  son.  And  to  think  that 
he  could  not  bring  her  here!  .  .  .  The  austere  father  of 
the  preceding  year  contemplated  himself  with  astonish- 


446    FOUK  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ment  as   he  caught  himself   formulating  this   immoral 
regret. 

They  passed  a  quarter  of  an  hour  without  loosening 
hands,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  Julio  asked  after 
his  mother  and  Chichi.  He  frequently  received  letters 
from  them,  but  that  was  not  enough  for  his  curiosity. 
He  laughed  heartily  at  hearing  of  Argensola's  amplified 
and  abundant  life.  These  interesting  bits  of  news  came 
from  a  world  not  much  more  than  sixty  miles  distant  in 
a  direct  line  .  .  .  but  so  far,  so  very  far  away! 

Suddenly  the  father  noticed  that  his  boy  was  listening 
with  less  attention.  His  senses,  sharpened  by  a  life  of 
alarms  and  ambushed  attacks,  appeared  to  be  withdraw- 
ing itself  from  the  company,  attracted  by  the  firing. 
Those  were  no  longer  scattered  shots ;  they  had  combined 
into  a  continual  crackling. 

The  senator,  who  had  left  father  and  son  together  that 
:hey  might  talk  more  freely,  now  reappeared. 

"We  are  dismissed  from  here,  my  friend,"  he  an- 
nounced.   "We  have  no  luck  in  our  visits." 

Soldiers  were  no  longer  passing  to  and  fro.  All  had 
hastened  to  their  posts,  like  the  crew  of  a  ship  which 
clears  for  action.  While  Julio  was  taking  up  the  rifle 
which  he  had  left  against  the  wall,  a  bit  of  dust  whirled 
Above  his  father's  head  and  a  little  hole  appeared  in  the 
ground. 

"Quick,  get  out  of  here !"  he  said,  pushing  Don  Marcelo. 

Then,  in  the  shelter  of  a  covered  trench,  came  the 
nervous,  very  brief  farewell.  "Good-bye,  father,"  a  kiss, 
and  he  was  gone.  He  had  to  return  as  quickly  as  possible 
to  the  side  of  his  men. 

The  firing  had  become  general  all  along  the  line.  The 
soldiers  were  shooting  serenely,  as  though  fulfilling  an 
ordinary  function.  It  was  a  combat  that  took  place  every 
day  without  anybody's  knowing  exactly  who  started  it — • 


WAR  447 

in  consequence  of  the  two  armies  being  installed  face  to 
face,  and  such  a  short  distance  apart.  .  .  .  The  Chief  of 
the  battalion  was  also  obliged  to  desert  his  guests,  fear- 
ing a  counter-attack. 

Again  the  officer  charged  with  their  safe  conduct  put 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  file,  and  they  began  to  retrace 
their  steps  through  the  slippery  maze.  Desnoyers  was 
tramping  sullenly  on,  angry  at  the  intervention  of  the 
enemy  which  had  cut  short  his  happiness. 

Before  his  inward  gaze  fluttered  the  vision  of  Julio 
with  his  black,  curly  beard  which  to  him  was  the  greatest 
novelty  of  the  trip.  He  heard  again  his  grave  voice,  that 
of  a  man  who  has  taken  up  life  from  a  new  viewpoint. 

"I  am  content,  father  ...  I  am  content." 

The  firing,  growing  constantly  more  distant,  gave  the 
father  great  uneasiness.  Then  he  felt  an  instinctive  faith, 
absurd,  very  firm.  He  saw  his  son  beautiful  and  im- 
mortal as  a  god.  He  had  a  conviction  that  he  would 
come  out  safe  and  sound  from  all  dangers.  That  others 
should  die  was  but  natural,  but  Julio !  .  .  . 

As  they  got  further  and  further  away  from  the  soldier 
boy,  Hope  appeared  to  be  singing  in  his  ears ;  and  as  an 
echo  of  his  pleasing  musings,  the  father  kept  repeating 
mentally : 

"No  one  will  kill  him.  My  heart  which  never  deceives 
me,  tells  me  so.  .  .  .  No  one  will  kill  him!" 


CHAPTER  IV 
"no  one  will  kill  him" 

Four  months  later,  Don  Marcelo's  confidence  received 
a  rude  shock.  Julio  was  wounded.  But  at  the  same  time 
that  Lacour  brought  him  this  news,  lamentably  delayed, 
he  tranquilized  him  with  the  result  of  his  investigations 
in  the  war  ministry.  Sergeant  Desnoyers  was  now  a  sub 
lieutenant,  his  wound  was  almost  healed  and,  thanks  to 
the  wire-pulling  of  the  senator,  he  was  coming  to  pass  a 
fortnight  with  his  family  while  convalescing, 

"An  exceptionally  brave  fellow,"  concluded  the  in- 
fluential man.  "I  have  read  what  his  chiefs  say  about 
him.  At  the  head  of  his  platoon,  he  attacked  a  German 
company;  he  killed  the  captain  with  his  own  hand;  he 
did  I  don't  know  how  many  more  brave  things  besides. 
.  .  .  They  have  presented  him  with  the  military  medal 
and  have  made  him  an  officer.  ...  A  regular  hero  1" 

And  the  rapidly  aging  father,  weeping  with  emotion, 
but  with  increasing  enthusiasm,  shook  his  head  and  trem- 
bled. He  repented  now  of  his  momentary  lack  of  faith 
when  the  first  news  of  his  wounded  boy  reached  him. 
How  absurd !  .  .  .  No  one  would  kill  Julio ;  his  heart  told 
him  so. 

Soon  after,  he  saw  him  coming  home  amid  the  cries 
and  delighted  exclamations  of  the  women.  Poor  Dona 
Luisa  wept  as  she  embraced  him,  hanging  on  his  neck 
with  sobs  of  emotion.  Chichi  contemplated  him  with 
grave  reflection,  putting  half  of  her  mind  on  the  recent 

448 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  449 

arrival  while  the  rest  flew  far  away  in  search  of  the 
other  warrior.  The  dusky,  South  American  maids  fought 
each  other  for  the  opening  in  the  curtains,  peering 
through  the  crack  with  the  gaze  of  an  antelope. 

The  father  admired  the  little  scrap  of  gold  on  the 
sleeve  of  the  gray  cloak,  with  the  skirts  buttoning  be- 
hind, examining  afterwards  the  dark  blue  cap  with  its 
low  brim,  adopted  by  the  French  for  the  war  in  the 
trenches.  The  traditional  kepi  had  disappeared.  A  suit- 
able visor,  like  that  of  the  men  in  the  Spanish  infantry, 
now  shadowed  Julio's  face.  Don  Marcelo  noted,  too,  the 
short  and  well-cared-for  beard,  very  different  from  the 
one  he  had  seen  in  the  trenches.  The  boy  was  coming 
home,  groomed  and  polished  from  his  recent  stay  in  the 
hospital. 

"Isn't  it  true  that  he  looks  like  me?"  queried  the  old 
man  proudly. 

Doiia  Luisa  responded  with  the  inconsequence  that 
mothers  always  show  in  matters  of  resemblance. 

"He  has  always  been  the  living  image  of  you !" 

Having  made  sure  that  he  was  well  and  happy,  the 
entire  family  suddenly  felt  a  certain  disquietude.  They 
wished  to  examine  his  wound  so  as  to  convince  them- 
selves that  he  was  completely  out  of  danger. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  at  all,"  protested  the  sub-lieutenant. 
"A  bullet  wound  in  the  shoulder.  The  doctor  feared  at 
first  that  I  might  lose  my  left  arm,  but  it  has  healed  well 
and  it  isn't  worth  while  to  think  any  more  about  it." 

Chichi's  appraising  glance  swept  Julio  from  head  to 
foot;  taking  in  all  the  details  of  his  military  elegance. 
His  cloak  was  worn  thin  and  dirty;  the  leggings  were 
spatter-dashed  with  mud;  he  smelled  of  leather,  sweaty 
cloth  and  strong  tobacco ;  but  on  one  wrist  he  was  wear- 
ing a  watch,  and  on  the  other,  his  identity  medal  fastened 
with  a  gold  chain.    She  had  always  admired  her  brother 


450    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

for  his  natural  good  taste,  so  she  stowed  away  all  these 
little  details  in  her  memory  in  order  to  pass  them  on  to 
Rene,  Then  she  surprised  her  mother  with  a  demand  for 
a  loan  that  she  might  send  a  little  gift  to  her  artillery- 
man. 

Don  Marcelo  gloated  over  the  fifteen  days  of  satisfac- 
tion ahead  of  him.  Sub-Lieutenant  Desnoyers  found  it 
impossible  to  go  out  alone,  for  his  father  was  always 
pacing  up  and  down  the  reception  hall  before  the  military 
cap  which  was  shedding  modest  splendor  and  glory  upon 
the  hat  rack.  Scarcely  had  Julio  put  it  on  his  head  before 
his  sire  appeared,  also  with  hat  and  cane,  ready  to  sally 
forth. 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  accompany  you?  ...  I  will 
not  bother  you." 

This  would  be  said  so  humbly,  with  such  an  evident 
desire  to  have  his  request  granted,  that  his  son  had  not 
the  heart  to  refuse  him.  In  order  to  take  a  walk  with 
Argensola,  he  had  to  scurry  down  the  back  stairs,  or 
resort  to  other  schoolboy  tricks. 

Never  had  the  elder  Desnoyers  promenaded  the  streets 
of  Paris  with  such  solid  satisfaction  as  by  the  side  of  this 
muscular  youth  in  his  gloriously  worn  cloak,  on  whose 
breast  were  glistening  his  two  decorations — the  cross  of 
war  and  the  military  medal.  He  was  a  hero,  and  this 
hero  was  his  son.  He  accepted  as  homage  to  them  both 
the  sympathetic  glances  of  the  public  in  the  street  cars 
and  subways.  The  interest  with  which  the  women  re- 
garded the  fine-looking  youth  tickled  him  immensely. 
All  the  other  military  men  that  they  met,  no  matter  how 
many  bands  and  crosses  they  displayed,  appeared  to  the 
doting  father  mere  emhusques,  unworthy  of  comparison 
with  his  Julio.  .  .  .  The  wounded  men  who  got  out  of 
the  coaches  by  the  aid  of  staffs  and  crutches  inspired 
him  with  the  greatest  pity.    Poor  fellows !  .  .  .  They  did 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  451 

not  bear  the  charmed  life  of  his  son.  Nobody  could  kill 
him ;  and  when,  by  chance,  he  had  received  a  wound,  the 
scars  had  immediately  disappeared  without  detriment  to 
his  handsome  person. 

Sometimes,  especially  at  night,  Desnoyers  senior  would 
show  an  unexpected  magnanimity,  letting  Julio  fare  forth 
alone.  Since  before  the  war,  his  son  had  led  a  life  filled 
with  triumphant  love-affairs,  what  might  he  not  achieve 
now  with  the  added  prestige  of  a  distinguished  officer! 
.  .  .  Passing  through  his  room  on  his  way  to  bed,  the 
father  imagined  the  hero  in  the  charming  company  of 
some  aristocratic  lady.  None  but  a  feminine  celebrity 
was  worthy  of  him ;  his  paternal  pride  could  accept  noth- 
ing less.  .  .  .  And  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  Julio 
might  be  with  Argensola  in  a  music-hall  or  in  a  moving- 
picture  show,  enjoying  the  simple  and  monotonous  diver- 
sions of  a  Paris  sobered  by  war,  with  the  homely  tastes 
of  a  sub-lieutenant  whose  amorous  conquests  were  no 
more  than  the  renewal  of  some  old  friendships. 

One  evening  as  Don  Marcelo  was  accompanying  his 
son  down  the  Cha^nps  Elysees,  he  started  at  recognizing 
a  lady  approaching  from  the  opposite  direction.  It  was 
Madame  Laurier,  .  .  .  Would  she  recognize  Julio?  He 
noted  that  the  youth  turned  pale  and  began  looking  at 
the  other  people  with  feigned  interest.  She  continued 
straight  ahead,  erect,  unseeing.  The  old  gentleman  was 
almost  irritated  at  such  coldness.  To  pass  by  his  son 
without  feeling  his  presence  instinctively !  Ah,  these 
women!  .  .  .  He  turned  his  head  involuntarily  to  look 
after  her,  but  had  to  avert  his  inquisitive  glance  im- 
mediately. He  had  surprised  Marguerite  motionless 
behind  them,  pallid  with  surprise,  and  fixing  her  gaze 
earnestly  on  the  soldier  who  was  separating  himself  from 
her.  Don  Marcelo  read  in  her  eyes  admiration,  love,  all 
of  the  past  that  was  suddenly  surging  up  in  her  memory. 


452     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

Poor  woman!  .  .  .  He  felt  for  her  a  paternal  affection 
as  though  she  were  the  wife  of  JuHo.  His  friend  Lacour 
had  again  spoken  to  him  about  the  Lauriers.  He  knew 
that  Marguerite  was  going  to  become  a  mother,  and  the 
old  man,  without  taking  into  account  the  reconciliation 
nor  the  passage  of  time,  felt  as  much  moved  at  the 
thought  of  this  approaching  maternity  as  though  the 
child  were  going  to  be  Julio's. 

Meanwhile  Julio  was  marching  right  on,  without  turn- 
ing his  head,  without  being  conscious  of  the  burning  gaze 
fixed  upon  him,  colorless,  but  humming  a  tune  to  hide  his 
emotion.  He  always  believed  that  Marguerite  had  passed 
near  him  without  recognizing  him,  since  his  father  did 
not  betray  her. 

One  of  Don  Marcelo's  pet  occupations  was  to  make  his 
son  tell  about  the  encounter  in  which  he  had  been  hurt. 
No  visitor  ever  came  to  see  the  sub-lieutenant  but  the 
father  always  made  the  same  petition. 

"Tell  us  how  you  were  wounded.  .  .  .  Explain  how  you 
killed  that  German  captain." 

Julio  tried  to  excuse  himself  with  visible  annoyance- 
He  was  already  surfeited  with  his  own  history.  To  please 
his  father,  he  had  related  the  facts  to  the  senator,  to 
Argensola  and  to  Tchernoff  in  his  studio,  and  to  other 
family  friends.  .  .  .  He  simply  could  not  do  it  again. 

So  the  father  began  the  narration  on  his  own  account, 
giving  the  relief  and  details  of  the  deed  as  though  seen 
with  his  own  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  had  to  take  possession  of  the  ruins  of  a  sugar 
refinery  in  front  of  the  trench.  The  Germans  had  been 
expelled  by  the  French  cannon.  A  reconnoitring  survey 
under  the  charge  of  a  trusty  man  was  then  necessary. 
And  the  heads,  as  usual,  had  selected  Sergeant  Des- 
noyers. 

At  daybreak,  the  platoon  had  advanced  stealthily  with- 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  453 

out  encountering  any  difficulty.  The  soldiers  scattered 
among  the  ruins.  Julio  then  went  on  alone,  examining 
the  positions  of  the  enemy;  on  turning  around  a  corner 
of  the  wall,  he  had  the  most  unexpected  of  encounters. 
A  German  captain  was  standing  in  front  of  him.  They 
had  almost  bumped  into  each  other.  They  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  with  more  suspense  than  hate,  yet  at  the 
same  time,  they  were  trying  instinctively  to  kill  each 
other,  each  one  trying  to  get  the  advantage  by  his  swift- 
ness. The  captain  had  dropped  the  map  that  he  was 
carrying.  His  right  hand  sought  his  revolver,  trj'ing  to 
draw  it  from  its  case  without  once  taking  his  eyes  off  his 
enemy.  Then  he  had  to  give  this  up  as  useless — it  was 
too  late.  With  his  eyes  distended  by  the  proximity  of 
death,  he  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  Frenchman  who 
had  raised  his  gun  to  his  face.  A  shot,  from  a  barrel 
almost  touching  him  .  .  .  and  the  German  fell  dead. 

Not  till  then  did  the  victor  notice  the  captain's  orderly 
who  was  but  a  few  steps  behind.  He  shot  Desnoyers, 
wounding  him  in  the  shoulder.  The  French  hurried  to 
the  spot,  killing  the  corporal.  Then  there  was  a  sharp 
cross-fire  with  the  enemy's  company  which  had  halted  a 
little  ways  off  while  their  commander  was  exploring  the 
ground.  Julio,  in  spite  of  his  wound,  continued  at  the 
head  of  his  section,  defending  the  factory  against  supe- 
rior forces  until  supports  arrived,  and  the  land  remained 
definitely  in  the  power  of  the  French. 

"Wasn't  that  about  the  way  of  it?"  Don  Marcelo 
would  always  wind  up. 

The  son  assented,  desirous  that  his  annoyance  with  the 
persistent  story  should  come  to  an  end  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Yes,  that  was  the  way  of  it.  But  what  the  father 
didn't  know,  what  Julio  would  never  tell,  was  the  dis- 
covery that  he  had  made  after  killing  the  captain. 

The  two  men,  during  the  interminable  second  in  which 


454     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

they  had  confronted  each  other,  had  showed  in  their  eyes 
something  more  than  the  surprise  of  an  encounter,  and 
the  wish  to  overcome  the  other.  Desnoyers  knew  that 
man.  The  captain  knew  him,  too.  He  guessed  it  from 
his  expression.  .  .  .  But  self-preservation  was  more  in- 
sistent than  recollection  and  prevented  them  both  from 
co-ordinating  their  thoughts. 

Desnoyers  had  fired  with  the  certainty  that  he  was  kill- 
ing some  one  that  he  knew.  Afterwards,  while  directing 
the  defense  of  the  position  and  guarding  against  the  ap- 
proach of  reinforcements,  he  had  a  suspicion  that  the 
enemy  whose  corpse  was  lying  a  few  feet  away  might 
possibly  be  a  member  of  the  von  Hartrott  family.  No,  he 
looked  much  older  than  his  cousins,  yet  younger  than  his 
Uncle  Karl  who  at  his  age,  would  be  no  mere  captain  of 
infantry. 

When,  weakened  by  the  loss  of  blood,  they  were  about 
to  carry  him  to  the  trenches,  the  sergeant  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  again  the  body  of  his  victim.  His  doubt  con- 
tinued before  the  face  blanched  by  death.  The  wide- 
open  eyes  still  seemed  to  retain  their  startled  expression. 
The  man  had  undoubtedly  recognized  him.  His  face  was 
familiar.  Who  was  he  ?  .  .  .  Suddenly  in  his  mind's  eye, 
Julio  saw  the  heaving  ocean,  a  great  steamer,  a  tall, 
blonde  woman  looking  at  him  with  half-closed  eyes  of 
invitation,  a  corpulent,  moustached  man  making  speeches 
in  the  style  of  the  Kaiser.  "Rest  in  peace.  Captain  Erck- 
mann !"  .  .  .  Thus  culminated  in  a  corner  of  France  the 
discussions  started  at  table  in  mid-ocean. 

He  excused  himself  mentally  as  though  he  were  in  the 
presence  of  the  sweet  Bertha.  He  had  had  to  kill,  in  or- 
der not  to  be  killed.  Such  is  war.  He  tried  to  console 
himself  by  thinking  that  Erckmann,  perhaps,  had  failed 
to  identify  him,  without  realizing  that  his  slayer  was  the 
shipmate  of  the  summer.  .  .  .  And  he  kept  carefully  hid- 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  455 

den  in  the  depths  of  his  memory  this  encounter  arranged 
by  Fate.  He  did  not  even  tell  Argensola  who  knew  of 
the  incidents  of  the  trans-atlantic  passage. 

When  he  least  expected  it,  Don  Marcelo  found  himself 
at  the  end  of  that  delightful  and  proud  existence  which 
his  son's  presence  had  brought  him.  The  fortnight  had 
flown  by  so  swiftly!  The  sub-lieutenant  had  returned  to 
his  post,  and  all  the  family,  after  this  period  of  reality, 
had  had  to  fall  back  on  the  fond  illusions  of  hope,  watch- 
ing again  for  the  arrival  of  his  letters,  making  conjec- 
tures about  the  silence  of  the  absent  one,  sending  him 
packet  after  packet  of  everything  that  the  market  was 
offering  for  the  soldier}' — for  the  most  part,  useless  and 
absurd  things. 

The  mother  became  very  despondent.  Julio's  visit  home 
but  made  her  feel  his  absence  with  greater  intensity. 
Seeing  him,  hearing  those  tales  of  death  that  her  husband 
was  so  fond  of  repeating,  made  her  realize  all  the  more 
clearly  the  dangers  constantly  surrounding  her  son. 
Fatality  appeared  to  be  warning  her  with  funereal  pre- 
sentiments. 

"They  are  going  to  kill  him,"  she  kept  saying  to  Des- 
noyers.    "That  wound  was  a  forewarning  from  heaven." 

When  passing  through  the  streets,  she  trembled  with 
emotion  at  sight  of  the  invalid  soldiers.  The  convales- 
cents of  energetic  appearance,  filled  her  with  the  greatest 
pity.  They  made  her  think  of  a  certain  trip  with  her 
husband  to  San  Sebastian  where  a  bull  fight  had  made 
her  cr}'  out  with  indignation  and  compassion,  pitying  the 
fate  of  the  poor,  gored  horses.  With  entrails  hanging, 
they  were  taken  to  the  corrals,  and  submitted  to  a  hurried 
adjustment  in  order  that  they  might  return  to  the  arena 
stimulated  by  a  false  energy.  Again  and  again  they  were 
reduced  to  this  makeshift  cobbling  until  finally  a  fatal 
jTorincr    finished    them.  .  .  .  These    recentlv    cured    men 


456     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

continually  brought  to  her  mind  those  poor  beasts.  Some 
had  been  wounded  three  times  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  and  were  returning  surgically  patched  together  and 
re-galvanized  to  take  another  chance  in  the  lottery  of 
Fate,  always  in  the  expectation  of  the  supreme  blow. 
.  .  .  Ay,  her  son ! 

Desnoyers  waxed  very  indignant  over  his  wife's  low 
spirits,  retorting: 

"But  I  tell  you  that  Nobody  will  kill  Julio !  ...  He  is 
my  son.  In  my  youth  I,  too,  passed  through  great  dan- 
gers. They  wounded  me,  too,  in  the  wars  in  the  other 
"world,  and  nevertheless,  here  I  am  at  a  ripe  old  age." 

Events  seemed  to  reinforce  his  blind  faith.  Calamities 
were  raining  around  the  family  and  saddening  his  rela- 
tives, yet  not  o»e  grazed  the  intrepid  sub-lieutenant  who 
was  persisting  in  his  daring  deeds  with  the  heroic  nerve 
of  a  musketeer. 

Dona  Luisa  received  a  letter  from  Germany.  Her  sis- 
ter wrote  from  Berlin,  transmitting  her  letters  through 
the  kindness  of  a  South  American  in  Switzerland.  This 
time,  the  good  lady  wept  for  some  one  besides  her  son; 
she  wept  for  Elena  and  the  enemies.  In  Germany  there 
were  mothers,  too,  and  she  put  the  sentiment  of  mater- 
nity above  all  patriotic  differences. 

Poor  Frau  von  Hartrott!  Her  letter  written  a  month 
before,  had  contained  nothing  but  death  notices  and 
words  of  despair.  Captain  Otto  was  dead.  Dead,  too, 
was  one  of  his  younger  brothers.  The  fact  that  the  latter 
had  fallen  in  a  territory  dominated  by  their  nation,  at 
least  gave  the  mother  the  sad  comfort  of  being  able  to 
weep  near  his  grave.  But  the  Captain  was  buried  on 
French  soil,  nobody  knew  where,  and  she  would  never 
be  able  to  find  his  remains,  mingled  with  hundreds  of 
others.  A  third  son  was  wounded  in  Poland.  Her  two 
daughters  had  lost  their  promised  lovers,  and  the  sight  of 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  457 

their  silent  grief,  was  intensifying  the  mother's  suffering. 
Von  Hartrott  continued  presiding  over  patriotic  societies 
and  making  plans  of  expansion  after  the  near  victory, 
but  he  had  aged  greatly  in  the  last  few  months.  The 
"sage"  was  the  only  one  still  holding  his  own.  The  fam- 
ily afflictions  were  aggravating  the  ferocity  of  Professor 
Julius  von  Hartrott.  He  was  calculating,  in  a  book  he 
was  writing,  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  millions  that 
Germany  must  exact  after  her  triumph,  and  the  various 
nations  that  she  would  have  to  annex  to  the  Fatherland. 

Dona  Luisa  imagined  that  in  the  avenue  Victor  Hugo^ 
she  could  hear  the  mother's  tears  falling  in  her  home  in 
Berlin.  "You  will  understand,  Luisa,  my  despair.  .  .  . 
We  were  all  so  happy !  May  God  punish  those  who  have 
brought  such  sorrow  on  the  world !  The  Emperor  is  in- 
nocent.   His  adversaries  are  to  blame  for  it  all  .  .  ." 

Don  Marcelo  was  silent  about  the  letter  in  his  wife's 
presence.  He  pitied  Elena  for  her  losses,  so  he  over- 
looked her  political  connections.  He  was  touched,  too,  at 
Doiia  Luisa's  distress  about  Otto.  She  had  been  his  god- 
mother and  Desnoyers  his  godfather.  That  was  so — 
Don  Marcelo  had  forgotten  all  about  it;  and  the  fact 
recalled  to  his  mental  vision  the  placid  life  of  the  ranch, 
and  the  play  of  the  blonde  children  that  he  had  petted 
behind  their  grandfather's  back,  before  Julio  was  born. 
For  many  years,  he  had  lavished  great  affection  on  these 
youngsters,  when  dismayed  at  Julio's  delayed  arrival. 
He  was  really  affected  at  tliinking  of  what  must  be  Karl's 
despair. 

But  then,  as  soon  as  he  was  alone,  a  selfish  coldness 
would  blot  out  this  compassion.  War  was  war,  and  the 
Germans  had  sought  it.  France  had  to  defend  herself, 
and  the  more  enemies  fell  the  better.  .  .  .  The  only  sol- 
dier who  interested  him  now  was  Julio.    And  his  faith  in 


458    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

the  destiny  of  his  son  made  him  feel  a  brutal  joy,  a 
paternal  satisfaction  almost  amounting  to  ferocity. 

"No  one  will  kill  him!  .  .  .  My  heart  tells  me  so." 

A  nearer  trouble  shook  his  peace  of  mind.  When  he 
returned  to  his  home  one  evening,  he  found  Dofia  Luisa 
with  a  terrified  aspect  holding  her  hands  to  her  head. 

"The  daughter,  Marcelo  .  .  .  our  daughter!" 

Chichi  was  stretched  out  on  a  sofa  in  the  salon,  pale, 
with  an  olive  tinge,  looking  fixedly  ahead  of  her  as  if  she 
could  see  somebody  in  the  empty  air.  She  was  not  cry- 
ing, but  a  slight  palpitation  was  making  her  swollen  eyes 
tremble  spasmodically. 

"I  want  to  see  him,"  she  was  saying  hoarsely.  "I  must 
see  him!" 

The  father  conjectured  that  something  terrible  must 
have  happened  to  Lacour's  son.  That  was  the  only  thing 
that  could  make  Chichi  show  such  desperation.  His  wife 
was  telling  him  the  sad  news.  Rene  was  wounded,  very 
seriously  wounded.  A  shell  had  exploded  over  his  bat- 
tery, killing  many  of  his  comrades.  The  young  officer 
had  been  dragged  out  from  a  mountain  of  dead,  one  hand 
was  gone,  he  had  injuries  in  the  legs,  chest  and  head. 

"I've  got  to  see  him !"  reiterated  Chichi. 

And  Don  Marcelo  had  to  concentrate  all  his  efforts  in 
making  his  daughter  give  up  this  dolorous  insistence 
which  made  her  exact  an  immediate  journey  to  the  front, 
trampling  down  all  obstacles,  in  order  to  reach  her 
wounded  lover.  The  senator  finally  convinced  her  of  the 
uselessness  of  it  all.  She  would  simply  have  to  wait ;  he, 
the  father,  had  to  be  patient.  He  was  negotiating  for 
Rene  to  be  transferred  to  a  hospital  in  Paris. 

The  great  man  moved  Desnoyers  to  pity.  He  was 
making  such  heroic  efforts  to  preserve  the  stoic  serenity 
of  ancient  days  by  recalling  his  glorious  ancestors  and  al? 
the  illustrious  figures  of  the  Roman  Republic.    But  these 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  459 

oratorical  illusions  had  suddenly  fallen  flat,  and  his  old 
friend  surprised  him  weeping  more  than  once.  An  only 
child,  and  he  might  have  to  lose  him !  .  .  .  Qiichi's  dumb 
woe  made  him  feel  even  greater  commiseration.  Her 
grief  was  without  tears  or  faintings.  Her  sallow  face,, 
the  feverish  brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  and  the  rigidity  that 
made  her  move  like  an  automaton  were  the  only  signs  of 
her  emotion.  She  was  living  with  her  thoughts  far  away, 
with  no  knowledge  of  what  was  going  on  around  her. 

When  the  patient  arrived  in  Paris,  his  father  and  fian- 
cee were  transfigured.  They  were  going  to  see  him,  and 
that  was  enough  to  make  them  imagine  that  he  was 
already  recuperated. 

Chichi  hastened  to  the  hospital  with  her  mother  and 
the  senator.  Then  she  went  alone  and  insisted  on  re- 
maining there,  on  living  at  the  wounded  man's  side,  wag- 
ing war  on  all  regulations  and  clashing  with  Sisters  of 
Charity,  trained  nurses,  and  all  who  roused  in  her  the 
hatred  of  rivalry.  Soon  realizing  that  all  her  violence 
accomplished  nothing,  she  humiliated  herself  and  became 
suddenly  very  submissive,  trying  with  her  wiles,  to  win 
the  women  over  one  by  one.  Finally,  she  was  permitted 
to  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  day  with  Rene. 

When  Desnoyers  first  saw  the  wounded  artilleryman  in 
bed,  he  had  to  make  a  great  effort  to  keep  the  tears  back. 
.  .  .  Ay,  his  son,  too,  might  be  brought  to  this  sad  pass  I 
.  .  .  The  man  looked  to  him  like  an  Egyptian  mummy, 
because  of  his  complete  envelopment  in  tight  bandage 
wrappings.  The  sharp  hulls  of  the  shell  had  fairly  rid- 
dled him.  There  could  only  be  seen  a  pair  of  sweet  eyes 
and  a  blond  bit  of  moustache  sticking  up  between  white 
bands.  The  poor  fellow  was  trying  to  smile  at  Chichi, 
who  was  hovering  around  him  with  a  certain  authority  as 
though  she  were  in  her  own  home. 

Two  months  rolled  bv.    Rene  was  better,  almost  well 


46o     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

His  betrothed  had  never  doubted  his  recovery  from  the 
moment  that  they  permitted  her  to  remain  with  him. 

"No  one  that  I  love,  ever  dies,"  she  asserted  with  a 
ring  of  her  father's  self-confidence.  "As  if  I  would  ever 
permit  the  Boches  to  leave  me  without  a  husband!" 

She  had  her  little  sugar  soldier  back  again,  but,  oh,  in 
what  a  lamentable  state!  .  .  .  Never  had  Don  Marcelo 
realized  the  de-personalizing  horrors  of  war  as  when  he 
saw  entering  his  home  this  convalescent  whom  he  had 
known  months  before — elegant  and  slender,  with  a  deli- 
•cate  and  somewhat  feminine  beauty.  His  face  was  now 
furrowed  by  a  network  of  scars  that  had  transformed  it 
into  a  purplish  arabesque.  Within  his  body  were  hidden 
many  such.  His  left  hand  had  disappeared  with  a  part 
•of  the  forearm,  the  empty  sleeve  hanging  over  the  re- 
mainder. The  other  hand  was  supported  on  a  cane,  a 
necessary  aid  in  order  to  be  able  to  move  a  leg  that  would 
never  recover  its  elasticity. 

But  Chichi  was  content.  She  surveyed  her  dear  little 
soldier  with  more  enthusiasm  than  ever — a  little  de- 
formed, perhaps,  but  very  interesting.  With  her  mother, 
she  accompanied  the  convalescent  in  his  constitutionals 
through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  When,  in  crossing  a 
street,  automobilists  or  coachmen  failed  to  stop  their  ve- 
hicles in  order  to  give  the  invalid  the  right  of  way,  her 
eyes  shot  lightning  shafts,  as  she  thundered,  "Shameless 
emhusqucs!"  .  .  .  She  was  now  feeling  the  same  fiery 
resentment  as  those  women  of  former  days  who  used 
to  insult  her  Rene  when  he  was  well  and  happy.  She 
trembled  with  satisfaction  and  pride  when  returning  the 
greetings  of  her  friends.  Her  eloquent  eyes  seemed  to 
be  saying,  "Yes,  he  is  my  betrothed  ...  a  hero!"  She 
was  constantly  arranging  the  war  cross  on  his  blouse  of 
"horizon  blue,"  taking  pains  to  place  it  as  conspicuously 
as  possible.    She  also  spent  much  time  in  prolonging  the 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  461 

life  of  his  shabby  uniform — always  the  same  one,  the 
old  one  which  he  was  wearing  when  wounded,  A  new 
one  would  give  him  the  officery  look  of  the  soldiers  who 
never  left  Paris. 

As  he  grew  stronger,  Rene  vainly  tried  to  emancipate 
himself  from  her  dominant  supervision.  It  was  simply 
useless  to  try  to  walk  with  more  celerity  or  freedom. 

"Lean  on  me !" 

And  he  had  to  take  his  fiancee's  arm.  All  her  plans 
for  the  future  were  based  on  the  devotion  with  which 
she  was  going  to  protect  her  husband,  on  the  solicitude 
that  she  was  going  to  dedicate  to  his  crippled  condition. 

"My  poor,  dear  invalid,"  she  would  murmur  lovingly. 
"So  ugly  and  so  helpless  those  blackguards  have  left  you ! 
.  .  .  But  luckily  you  have  me,  and  I  adore  you !  ...  It 
makes  no  difference  to  me  that  one  of  your  hands  is  gone. 
I  will  care  for  you ;  you  shall  be  my  little  son.  You  will 
just  see,  after  we  are  married,  how  elegant  and  stylish  I 
am  going  to  keep  you.  But  don't  you  dare  to  look  at  any 
of  the  other  women!  The  very  first  moment  that  you 
do,  my  precious  little  invalid,  I'll  leave  you  alone  in  jour 
helplessness  1" 

Desnoyers  and  the  senator  were  also  concerned  about 
their  future,  but  in  a  very  definite  way.  They  must  be 
married  as  soon  as  possible.  What  was  the  use  of  wait- 
ing? .  .  .  The  war  was  no  longer  an  obstacle.  They 
would  be  married  as  quietly  as  possible.  This  was  no 
time  for  wedding  pomp. 

So  Rene  Lacour  remained  permanently  in  the  house  on 
the  avenida  Victor  Hugo,  after  the  nuptial  ceremony  wit- 
nessed by  a  dozen  people, 

Don  Marcelo  had  had  dreams  of  other  things  for  his 
daughter — a  grand  wedding  to  which  the  daily  papers 
would  devote  much  space,  a  son-in-law  with  a  brilliant 


462     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

future  .  .  .  but  ay,  this  war !  Everybody  was  having  his 
fondest  hopes  dashed  to  pieces  every  few  hours. 

He  took  what  comfort  he  could  out  of  the  situation. 
What  more  did  they  want?  Chichi  was  happy — with  a 
rollicking  and  selfish  happiness  which  took  no  interest  in 
anything  but  her  own  love-affairs.  The  Desnoyers  busi- 
ness returns  could  not  be  improved  upon ; — after  the  first 
crisis  had  passed,  the  necessities  of  the  belligerents  had 
begun  utilizing  the  output  of  his  ranches,  and  never  be- 
fore had  meat  brought  such  high  prices.  Money  was 
flowing  in  with  greater  volume  than  formerly,  while  the 
expenses  were  diminishing.  .  .  .  Julio  was  in  daily  dan- 
ger of  death,  but  the  old  ranchman  was  buoyed  up  by  his 
conviction  that  his  son  led  a  charmed  life — no  harm 
could  touch  him.  His  chief  preoccupation,  therefore, 
was  to  keep  himself  tranquil,  avoiding  all  emotional 
storms.  He  had  been  reading  with  considerable  alarm 
of  the  frequency  with  which  well-known  persons,  poli- 
ticians, artists  and  writers,  were  dying  in  Paris.  War 
was  not  doing  all  its  killing  at  the  front ;  its  shocks  were 
falling  like  arrows  over  the  land,  causing  the  fall  of  the 
weak,  the  crushed  and  the  exhausted  who,  in  normal 
times,  would  probably  have  lived  to  a  far  greater  age. 

"Attention,  Marcelo !"  he  said  to  himself  with  grim 
humor.  "Keep  cool  now!  .  .  .  You  must  avoid  Friend 
Tchernoff's  four  horsemen,  you  know!" 

He  spent  an  afternoon  in  the  studio  going  over  the  war 
news  in  the  papers.  The  French  had  begun  an  offensive 
in  Champagne  with  g^eat  advances  and  many  prisoners. 

Desnoyers  could  not  but  think  of  the  loss  of  life  that 
this  must  represent.  Julio's  fate,  however,  gave  him  no 
uneasiness,  for  his  son  was  not  in  that  part  of  the  front. 
But  yesterday  he  had  received  a  letter  from  him,  dated 
the  week  before ;  they  all  took  about  that  length  of  time 
to  reach  him.     Sub-lieutenant  Desnoyers  was  as  blithe 


"NO  ONE  WILL  KILL  HIM"  463 

and  reckless  as  ever.  They  were  going  to  promote  him 
again — he  was  among  those  proposed  for  the  Legion 
d'Honneiir.  These  facts  intensified  Don  Marcelo's  vision 
of  himself  as  the  father  of  a  general  as  young  as  those 
of  the  Revolution ;  and  as  he  contemplated  the  daubs  and 
sketches  around  him,  he  marvelled  at  the  extraordinary 
way  in  which  the  war  had  twisted  his  son's  career. 

On  his  way  home,  he  passed  Marguerite  Laurier 
dressed  in  mourning.  The  senator  had  told  him  a  few 
days  before  that  her  brother,  the  artilleryman,  had  just 
been  killed  at  Verdun. 

"How  many  are  falling!"  he  said  mournfully  to  him- 
self.    "How  hard  it  will  be  for  his  poor  mother!" 

But  he  smiled  immediately  after  at  the  thought  of  those 
to  be  bom.  Never  before  had  the  people  been  so  occu- 
pied in  accelerating  their  reproduction.  Even  Madame 
Laurier  now  showed  with  pride  the  very  visible  curve* 
of  her  approaching  maternity,  and  Desnoyers  noted  sym- 
pathetically the  vital  volume  apparent  beneath  her  long 
mourning  veil.  Again  he  thought  of  Julio,  without  tak- 
ing into  account  the  flight  of  time.  He  felt  as  interested 
in  the  little  newcomer  as  though  he  were  in  some  way 
related  to  it,  and  he  promised  himself  to  aid  generously 
the  Laurier  baby  if  he  ever  had  the  opportunity. 

On  entering  his  house,  he  was  met  in  the  hall  by  Dona 
Luisa,  who  told  him  that  Lacour  was  waiting  for  him. 

"Very  good!"  he  responded  gaily.  "Let  us  see  what 
our  illustrious  father-in-law  has  to  say." 

His  good  wife  was  uneasy.  She  had  felt  alarmed  with- 
out knowing  exactly  why  at  the  senator's  solemn  appear- 
ance ;  with  that  feminine  instinct  which  perforates  all 
masculine  precautions,  she  surmised  some  hidden  mis- 
sion. She  had  noticed,  too,  that  Rene  and  his  father  were 
talking  together  in  a  low  tone,  with  repressed  emotion. 

Moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  hovered  near  the 


464     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

closed  door,  hoping  to  hear  something  definite.  Her  wait 
was  not  long. 

Suddenly  a  cry  ...  a  groan  .  .  .  the  groan  that  can 
come  only  from  a  body  from  which  all  vitality  is  es- 
caping. 

And  Dona  Luisa  rushed  in  just  in  time  to  support  her 
husband  as  he  was  falling  to  the  floor. 

The  senator  was  excusing  himself  confusedly  to  the 
walls,  the  furniture,  and  turning  his  back  in  his  agitation 
on  the  dismayed  Rene,  the  only  one  who  could  have 
listened  to  him. 

"He  did  not  let  me  finish.  .  .  .  He  guessed  from  the 
very  first  word.  .  .  ." 

Hearing  the  outcry,  Chichi  hastened  in  in  time  to  see 
her  father  slipping  from  his  wife's  arms  to  the  sofa,  and 
from  there  to  the  floor,  with  glassy,  staring  eyes,  and 
foaming  at  the  mouth. 

From  the  luxurious  rooms  came  forth  the  world-old 
cry,  always  the  same  from  the  humblest  home  to  the 
highest  and  loneliest: — 

"Oh,  Julio!  .  .  .  Oh,  my  son,  my  son!"  .  .  • 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS 


The  automobile  was  going  slowly  forward  under  the 
colorless  sky  of  a  winter  morning. 

In  the  distance,  the  earth's  surface  seemed  trembling 
with  white,  fluttering  things  resembling  a  band  of  but- 
terflies poised  on  the  furrows.  On  one  of  the  fields  the 
swarm  was  of  great  size,  on  others,  it  was  broken  into 
small  groups. 

As  the  machine  approached  these  white  butterflies,  they 
seemed  to  be  taking  on  other  colors.  One  wing  was  turn- 
ing blue,  another  flesh-colored.  .  .  .  They  were  little 
flags,  by  the  hundreds,  by  the  thousands  which  palpitated 
night  and  day,  in  the  mild,  sunny,  morning  breeze,  in  the 
damp  drip  of  the  dull  mornings,  in  the  biting  cold  of  the 
interminable  nights.  The  rains  had  washed  and  re- 
washed  them,  stealing  away  the  most  of  their  color. 
Some  of  the  borders  of  the  restless  little  strips  were  mil- 
dewed by  the  dampness  while  others  were  scorched  by 
the  sun,  like  insects  which  have  just  grazed  the  flames. 

In  the  midst  of  the  fluttering  flags  could  be  seen  the 
black  crosses  of  wood.  On  these  were  hanging  dark 
kepis,  red  caps,  and  helmets  topped  with  tufts  of  horse- 
hair, slowly  disintegrating  and  weeping  atmospheric  tears 
at  every  point. 

"How  many  are  dead!"  sighed  Don  Marcelo's  voice 
from  the  automobile. 

And  Rene,  who  was  seated  in  front  of  him,  sadly  nod- 

465 


466    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ded  his  head.  Dona  Luisa  was  looking  at  the  mournful 
plain  while  her  lips  trembled  slightly  in  constant  prayer. 
Chichi  turned  her  great  eyes  in  astonishment  from  one 
side  to  the  other.  She  appeared  larger,  more  capable  in 
spite  of  the  pallor  which  blanched  her  olive  skin. 

The  two  ladies  were  dressed  in  deepest  mourning. 
The  father,  too,  was  in  mourning,  huddled  down  in  the 
seat  in  a  crushed  attitude,  his  legs  carefully  covered  with 
the  great  fur  rugs.  Rene  was  wearing  his  campaign  uni- 
form under  his  storm  coat.  In  spite  of  his  injuries,  he 
had  not  wished  to  retire  from  the  army.  He  had  been 
transferred  to  a  technical  office  till  the  termination  of  the 
war. 

The  Desnoyers  family  were  on  the  way  to  carry  out 
their  long-cherished  hope. 

Upon  recovering  consciousness  after  the  fatal  news, 
the  father  had  concentrated  all  his  will  power  in  one 
petition. 

"I  must  see  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  son !  .  .  .  My  son !" 

Vain  were  the  senator's  efforts  to  show  him  the  impos- 
sibility of  such  a  journey.  The  fighting  was  still  going 
on  in  the  zone  where  Julio  had  fallen.  Later  on,  perhaps, 
it  might  be  possible  to  visit  it.  "I  want  to  see  it !"  per- 
sisted the  broken-hearted  old  man.  It  was  necessary  for 
him  to  see  his  son's  grave  before  dying  himself,  and 
Lacour  had  to  requisition  all  his  powers,  for  four  long 
months  formulating  requests  and  overcoming  much  op- 
position, in  order  that  Don  Marcelo  might  be  permitted 
to  make  the  trip. 

Finally  a  military  automobile  came  one  morning  for 
the  entire  Desnoyers  family.  The  senator  could  not  ac- 
company them.  Rumors  of  an  approac^ng  change  in 
the  cabinet  were  floating  about,  and  he  felt  obliged  to 
show  himself  in  the  senate  in  case  the  Republic  should 
again  wish  to  avail  itself  of  his  unappreciated  services. 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  467 

They  passed  the  night  in  a  provincial  city  where  there 
was  a  military  post,  and  Rene  collected  considerable  in- 
formation from  officers  who  had  witnessed  the  great 
■combat.  With  his  map  before  him,  he  followed  the  ex- 
planations until  he  thought  he  could  recognize  the  very 
plot  of  ground  which  Julio's  regiment  had  occupied. 

The  following  morning  they  renewed  their  expedition. 
A  soldier  who  had  taken  part  in  the  battle  acted  as  their 
guide,  seated  beside  the  chauffeur.  From  time  to  time, 
Rene  consulted  the  map  spread  out  on  his  knees,  and 
asked  questions  of  the  soldier  whose  regiment  had  fought 
very  close  to  that  of  Desnoyers',  but  he  could  not  remem- 
ber exactly  the  ground  which  they  had  gone  over  so 
many  months  before.  The  landscape  had  undergone 
many  transformations  and  had  presented  a  very  differ- 
ent appearance  when  covered  with  men.  Its  deserted  as- 
pect bewildered  him  .  .  .  and  the  motor  had  to  go  very 
slowly,  veering  to  the  north  of  the  line  of  graves,  follow- 
ing the  central  highway,  level  and  white,  entering  cross- 
roads and  winding  through  ditches  muddied  with  deep 
pools  through  which  they  splashed  with  great  bounds  and 
jar  on  the  springs.  At  times,  they  drove  across  fields 
from  one  plot  of  crosses  to  another,  their  pneumatic  tires 
crushing  flat  from  the  furrows  opened  by  the  plowman. 

Tombs  .  .  .  tombs  on  all  sides !  The  white  locusts  of 
death  were  swarming  over  the  entire  countryside.  There 
was  no  corner  free  from  their  quivering  wings.  The  re- 
cently plowed  earth,  the  yellowing  roads,  the  dark  wood- 
land, everything  was  pulsating  in  weariless  undulation. 
The  soil  seemed  to  be  clamoring,  and  its  words  were  the 
vibrations  of  the  restless  little  flags.  And  the  thousands 
of  cries,  endlessly  repeated  across  the  days  and  nights, 
were  intoning  in  rhythmic  chant  the  terrible  onslaught 
which  this  earth  had  witnessed  and  from  which  it  still 
felt  tragic  shudderings. 


468     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

"Dead  .  .  .  dead,"  murmured  Chichi,  following  the 
rows  of  crosses  incessantly  slipping  past  the  sides  of  the 
automobile. 

"O  Lord,  for  them!  .  .  .  for  their  mothers,"  moaned 
Doiia  Luisa,  renewing  her  prayers. 

Here  had  taken  place  the  fiercest  part  of  the  battle — 
the  fight  in  the  old  way,  man  to  man  outside  of  the 
trenches,  with  bayonets,  with  guns,  with  fists,  with  teeth. 

The  guide  who  was  beginning  to  get  his  bearings  was 
pointing  out  the  various  points  on  the  desolate  horizon. 
There  were  the  African  sharpshooters ;  further  on,  the 
chasseurs.  The  very  large  groups  of  graves  were  where 
the  light  infantry  had  charged  with  their  bayonets  on  the 
sides  of  the  road. 

The  automobile  came  to  a  stop.  Rene  climbed  out 
after  the  soldier  in  order  to  examine  the  inscriptions  on 
a  few  of  the  crosses.  Perhaps  these  might  have  belonged 
to  the  regiment  they  were  seeking.  Chichi  also  alighted 
mechanically  with  the  irresistible  desire  of  aiding  her 
husband. 

Each  grave  contained  several  men.  The  number  of 
bodies  within  could  be  told  by  the  mouldering  kepis  or 
rusting  helmets  hanging  on  the  arms  of  the  cross ;  the 
number  of  the  regiments  could  still  be  deciphered  be- 
tween the  rows  of  ants  crawling  over  the  caps.  The 
wreaths  with  which  affection  had  adorned  some  of  the 
sepulchres  were  blackened  and  stripped  of  their  leaves. 
On  some  of  the  crucifixes,  the  names  of  the  dead  were 
still  clear,  but  others  were  beginning  to  fade  out  and 
soon  would  be  entirely  illegible. 

"What  a  horrible  death!  .  .  .  What  glory!"  thought 
Chichi  sadly. 

Not  even  the  names  of  the  greater  part  of  these  vigor- 
ous men  cut  down  in  the  strength  of  their  youth  were 
going  to  survive!    Nothing  would  remain  but  the  mem- 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  469 

ory  which  would  from  time  to  time  overwhelm  some  old 
countrywoman  driving  her  cow  along  the  French  high- 
way, murmuring  between  her  sobs :  "My  little  one  1 
.  .  .  I  wonder  where  they  burled  my  little  one!"  Or, 
perhaps,  it  would  live  in  the  heart  of  the  village  woman 
clad  in  mourning  who  did  not  know  how  to  solve  the 
problem  of  existence;  or  in  the  minds  of  the  children 
going  to  school  in  black  blouses  and  saying  with  ferocious 
energy — "When  I  grow  up  I  am  going  to  kill  the  Boches 
to  avenge  my  father's  death !" 

And  Dona  Luisa,  motionless  in  her  seat,  followed  with 
her  eyes  Chichi's  course  among  the  graves,  while  return- 
ing to  her  interrupted  prayer — "Lord,  for  the  mothers 
without  sons  .  .  .  for  the  little  ones  without  fathers! 
.  .  .  May  thy  wrath  not  be  turned  against  us,  and  may 
thy  smile  shine  upon  us  once  morel" 

Her  husband,  shrunken  in  his  seat,  was  also  looking 
over  the  funereal  fields,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  most 
tenaciously  on  some  mounds  without  wreaths  or  flags, 
simple  crosses  with  a  little  board  bearing  tlie  briefest  in- 
scription. These  were  the  German  bodies  which  seemed 
to  have  a  page  to  themselves  in  the  Book  of  Death.  On 
one  side,  the  innumerable  French  tombs  with  inscrip- 
tions as  small  as  possible,  simple  numbers — one,  two, 
three  dead.  On  the  other,  in  each  of  the  spacious,  un- 
adorned sepulchres,  great  quantities  of  soldiers,  with  a 
number  of  terrifying  terseness.  Fences  of  wooden  strips, 
narrow  and  wide,  surrounded  these  latter  ditches  filled 
to  the  tops  with  bodies.  The  earth  was  as  bleached  as 
though  covered  with  snow  or  saltpetre.  This  was  the 
lime  returning  to  mix  with  the  land.  The  crosses  raised 
above  these  huge  mounds  bore  each  an  inscription  stating 
that  it  contained  Germans,  and  then  a  number — 200  .  .  . 
300  .  .  .  400. 

Such  appalling  figures  obliged  Desnoyers  to  exert  his 


470     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYP^.: 

imagination.  It  was  not  easy  to  evoke  with  exactitude 
the  vision  of  three  hundred  carcasses  in  helmets,  boots 
and  cloaks,  in  all  the  revolting  aspects  of  death,  piled  in 
rows  as  though  they  were  bricks,  locked  forever  in  the 
depths  of  a  great  trench.  .  .  .  And  this  funereal  align- 
ment was  repeated  at  intervals  all  over  the  great  im- 
mensity of  the  plain ! 

The  mere  sight  of  them  filled  Don  Marcelo  with  a  kind 
of  savage  joy,  as  his  mourning  fatherhood  tasted  the 
fleeting  consolation  of  vengeance.  Julio  had  died,  and  he 
was  going  to  die,  too,  not  having  strength  to  survive  his 
bitter  woe ;  but  how  many  hundreds  of  the  enemy  wast- 
ing in  these  awful  trenches  were  also  leaving  in  the  world 
loved  beings  who  would  remember  them  as  he  was 
remembering  his  son !  .  .  . 

He  imagined  them  as  they  must  have  been  before  the 
death  call  sounded,  as  he  had  seen  them  in  the  advance 
around  his  castle. 

Some  of  them,  the  most  prominent  and  terrifying, 
probably  still  showed  on  their  faces  the  theatrical  cica- 
trices of  their  university  duels.  They  were  the  soldiers 
who  carried  books  in  their  knapsacks,  and  after  the  fusil- 
lade of  a  lot  of  country  folk,  or  the  sacking  and  burning 
of  a  hamlet,  devoted  themselves  to  reading  the  poets  and 
philosophers  by  the  glare  of  the  blaze  which  they  had 
kindled.  They  were  bloated  with  science  as  with  the 
puffiness  of  a  toad,  proud  of  their  pedantic  and  all-suffi- 
cient intellectuality.  Sons  of  sophistry  and  grandsons  of 
cant,  they  had  considered  themselves  capable  of  proving 
the  greatest  absurdities  by  the  mental  capers  to  which 
they  had  accustomed  their  acrobatic  intellects. 

They  had  employed  the  favorite  method  of  the  thesis, 
antithesis  and  synthesis  in  order  to  demonstrate  that  Ger- 
many ought  to  be  the  Mistress  of  the  World;  that  Bel- 
gium was  guilty  of  her  own  ruin  because  she  had  de- 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  4-1 

fended  herself;  that  true  happiness  consisted  in  having 
all  humanity  dominated  by  Prussia ;  that  the  supreme  idea 
of  existence  consisted  in  a  clean  stable  and  a  full  man- 
ger; that  Liberty  and  Justice  were  nothing  more  than 
illusions  of  the  romanticism  of  the  French;  that  every 
deed  accomplished  became  virtuous  from  the  moment  it 
triumphed,  and  that  Right  was  simply  a  derivative  of 
Might.  These  metaphysical  athletes  with  guns  and 
sabres  were  accustomed  to  consider  themselves  the  pala- 
dins of  a  crusade  of  civilization.  They  wished  the  blond 
type  to  triumph  definitely  over  the  brunette ;  they  wished 
to  enslave  the  worthless  man  of  the  South,  consigning 
him  forever  to  a  world  regulated  by  "the  salt  of  the 
earth,"  "the  aristocracy  of  humanity."  Everything  on 
the  page  of  history  that  had  amounted  to  anything  was 
German.  The  ancient  Greeks  had  been  of  Germanic  ori- 
gin ;  German,  too,  the  great  artists  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance. The  men  of  the  Mediterranean  countries,  with 
the  inherent  badness  of  their  extraction,  had  falsified 
history.  .  .  . 

"That's  the  best  place  for  you.  .  .  .  You  are  better 
where  you  are  buried,  you  pitiless  pedants!"  thought 
Desnoyers,  recalling  his  conversations  with  his  friend,  the 
Russian. 

What  a  shame  that  there  were  not  here,  too,  all  the 
Herr  Professors  of  the  German  universities — those  wise 
men  so  unquestionably  skilful  in  altering  the  trademarks 
of  intellectual  products  and  changing  the  terminolog)'  of 
things !  Those  men  with  flowing  beards  and  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  pacific  rabbits  of  the  laboratory  and 
the  professor's  chair  that  had  been  preparing  the  ground 
for  the  present  war  with  their  sophistries  and  their  un- 
blushing effrontery!  Their  guilt  was  far  greater  than 
that  of  the  Herr  Lieutenant  of  the  tight  corset  and  the 
gleaming   monocle,    who   in   his   thirst    for   strife    and 


472     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

slaughter  was  simply  and  logically  working  out  the  pro- 
fessional charts. 

While  the  German  soldier  of  the  lower  classes  was 
plundering  what  he  could  and  drunkenly  shooting  what- 
ever crossed  his  path,  the  warrior  student  was  reading  by 
the  camp  glow,  Hegel  and  Nietzsche.  He  was  too  en- 
lightened to  execute  with  his  own  hands  these  acts  of 
*'historical  justice,"  but  he,  with  the  professors,  was 
rousing  all  the  bad  instincts  of  the  Teutonic  beast  and 
giving  them  a  varnish  of  scientific  justification. 

"Lie  there,  in  your  sepulchre,  you  intellectual  scourge !" 
continued  Desnoyers  mentally. 

The  fierce  Moors,  the  negroes  of  infantile  intelligence, 
the  sullen  Hindus,  appeared  to  him  more  deserving  of  re- 
spect than  all  the  ermine-bordered  togas  parading  haught- 
ily and  aggressively  through  the  cloisters  of  the  German 
universities.  What  peacefulness  for  the  world  if  their 
wearers  should  disappear  forever!  He  preferred  the 
simple  and  primitive  barbarity  of  the  savage  to  the  re- 
fined, deliberate  and  merciless  barbarity  of  the  greedy 
sage; — it  did  less  harm  and  was  not  so  hypocritical. 

For  this  reason,  the  only  ones  in  the  enemy's  ranks 
who  awakened  his  commiseration  were  the  lowly  and  un- 
lettered dead  interred  beneath  the  sod.  They  had  been 
peasants,  factory  hands,  business  clerks,  German  gluttons 
of  measureless  (intestinal)  capacity,  who  had  seen  in  the 
war  an  opportunity  for  satisfying  their  appetites,  for 
beating  somebody  and  ordering  them  about  after  having 
passed  their  lives  in  their  country,  obeying  and  receiving 
kicks. 

The  history  of  their  country  was  nothing  more  than  a 
series  of  raids — like  the  Indian  forays,  in  order  to  plun- 
der the  property  of  those  who  lived  in  the  mild  Mediter- 
ranean climes.  The  Herr  Professors  had  proved  to  their 
■countrymen  that  such  sacking  incursions  were  indispen- 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  473 

sable  to  the  highest  civilization,  and  that  the  German  was 
marching  onward  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  good  father 
sacrificing  himself  in  order  to  secure  bread  for  his  family. 

Hundreds  of  thousands  of  letters,  written  by  their  rela- 
tives with  tremulous  hands,  were  following  the  great 
Germanic  horde  across  the  invaded  countries.  Desnoyers 
had  overheard  the  reading  of  some  of  these,  at  nightfall 
before  his  ruined  castle.  These  were  some  of  the  mes- 
sages found  in  the  pockets  of  the  imprisoned  or  dead : — 
"Don't  show  any  pity  for  the  red  pantaloons.  Kill  whom- 
ever you  can,  and  show  no  mercy  even  to  the  little  ones." 
.  .  .  "We  would  thank  you  for  the  shoes,  but  the  girl 
cannot  get  them  on.  Those  French  have  such  ridicu- 
lously small  feet!"  .  .  .  "Try  to  get  hold  of  a  piano." 
...  "I  would  very  much  like  a  good  watch."  .  .  .  "Our 
neighbor,  the  Captain,  has  sent  his  wife  a  necklace  o£ 
pearls.  .  .  .  And  you  send  only  such  insignificant  things !" 

The  virtuous  German  had  been  advancing  heroically 
with  the  double  desire  of  enlarging  his  country  and  of 
making  valuable  gifts  to  his  oflf spring.  "Deutschland 
ilber  dies!"  But  their  most  cherished  illusions  had  fallen 
into  the  burial  ditch  in  company  with  thousands  of  com- 
rades-at-arms  fed  on  the  same  dreams. 

Desnoyers  could  imagine  the  impatience  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Rhine,  the  pitiful  women  who  were  waiting 
and  waiting.  The  lists  of  the  dead  had,  perhaps,  over- 
looked the  missing  ones ;  and  the  letters  kept  coming  and 
coming  to  the  German  lines,  many  of  them  never  reach- 
ing their  destination.  "Why  don't  you  answer !  Perhaps 
you  are  not  writing  so  as  to  give  us  a  great  surprise. 
Don't  forget  the  necklace !  Send  us  a  piano.  A  carved 
china  cabinet  for  the  dining  room  would  please  us  greatly. 
The  French  have  so  many  beautiful  things!"  .  .  . 

The  bare  cross  rose  stark  and  motionless  above  the 
lime-blanched  land.    Near  it  the  little  flags  were  flutter- 


474     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

ing  their  wings,  moving  from  side  to  side  like  a  head 
shaking  out  a  smiling,  ironical  protest — No !  .  .  .  No ! 

The  automobile  continued  on  its  painful  way.  The 
guide  was  now  pointing  to  a  distant  group  of  graves. 
That  was  undoubtedly  the  place  where  the  regiment  had 
been  fighting.  So  the  vehicle  left  the  main  road,  sinking 
its  wheels  in  the  soft  earth,  having  to  make  wide  detours 
in  order  to  avoid  the  mounds  scattered  about  so  capri- 
ciously by  the  casualties  of  the  combat. 

Almost  all  of  the  fields  were  ploughed.  The  work  of 
the  farmer  extended  from  tomb  to  tomb,  making  them 
more  prominent  as  the  morning  sun  forced  its  way 
through  the  enshrouding  mists. 

Nature,  blind,  unfeeling  and  silent,  ignoring  individual 
existence  and  taking  to  her  bosom  with  equal  indiffer- 
ence, a  poor  little  animal  or  a  million  corpses,  was  begin- 
ning to  smile  under  the  late  winter  suns. 

The  fountains  were  still  crusted  with  their  beards  of 
ice;  the  earth  snapped  as  the  feet  weighed  down  its  hid- 
den crystals ;  the  trees,  black  and  sleeping,  were  still  re- 
taining the  coat  of  metallic  green  in  which  the  winter  had 
clothed  them ;  from  the  depths  of  the  earth  still  issued  an 
acute,  deadly  chill,  like  that  of  burned-out  planets.  .  .  . 
But  Spring  had  already  girded  herself  with  flowers  in  her 
palace  in  the  tropics,  and  was  saddling  with  green  her 
trusty  steed,  neighing  with  impatience.  Soon  they  would 
race  through  the  fields,  driving  before  them  in  disordered 
flight  the  black  goblins  of  winter,  and  leaving  in  their 
wake  green  growing  things  and  tender,  subtle  perfumes. 
The  wayside  greenery,  robing  itself  in  tiny  buds,  was 
already  heralding  their  arrival.  The  birds  were  ventur- 
ing forth  from  their  retreats  in  order  to  wing  their  way 
among  the  crows  croaking  wrathfully  above  the  closed 
tombs.  The  landscape  was  beginning  to  smile  in  the  sun- 
light with  the  artless,  deceptive  smile  of  a  child  who  looks 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  475 

candidly  around  while  his  pockets  are  stuffed  with  stolen 
goodies. 

The  husbandmen  had  ploughed  the  fields  and  filled  the 
furrows  with  seed.  Men  might  go  on  killing  each  other 
as  much  as  they  liked ;  the  soil  had  no  concern  with  their 
hatreds,  and  on  that  account,  did  not  propose  to  alter  its 
course.  As  every  year,  the  metal  cutter  had  opened  its 
usual  lines,  obliterating  with  its  ridges  the  traces  of  man 
and  beast,  undismayed  and  with  stubborn  diligence  filling 
up  the  tunnels  which  the  bombs  had  made. 

Sometimes  the  ploughshare  had  struck  against  an  ob- 
stacle underground  ...  an  unknown,  unburied  man ;  but 
the  cultivator  had  continued  on  its  way  without  pity. 
Every  now  and  then,  it  was  stopped  by  less  yielding  ob- 
structions, projectiles  which  had  sunk  into  the  ground 
intact.  The  rustic  had  dug  up  these  instruments  of  death 
which  occasionally  had  exploded  their  delayed  charge  in 
his  hands.  .  .  .  But  the  man  of  the  soil  knows  no  fear 
when  in  search  of  sustenance,  and  so  was  doggedly  con- 
tinuing his  rectilinear  advance,  swerving  only  before  the 
visible  tombs;  there  the  furrows  had  curved  mercifully, 
making  little  islands  of  the  mounds  surmounted  by 
crosses  and  flags.  The  seeds  of  future  bread  were  pre- 
paring to  extend  their  tentacles  like  devil  fish  among 
those  who,  but  a  short  time  before,  were  animated  by 
such  monstrous  ambition.  Life  was  about  to  renew  itself 
once  more. 

The  automobile  came  to  a  standstill.  The  guide  was 
running  about  among  the  crosses,  stooping  over  in  order 
to  examine  their  weather-stained  inscriptions. 

"Here  we  are  1" 

He  had  found  above  one  grave  the  number  of  the  regi- 
ment. 

Chichi  and  her  husband  promptly  dismounted  again. 
Then  Dona  Luisa,  with  sad  resolution,  biting  her  lips  to 


476     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

keep  the  tears  back.  Then  the  three  devoted  themselves 
to  assisting  the  father  who  had  thrown  off  his  fur  lap- 
robe.  Poor  Desnoyers!  On  touching  the  ground,  he 
swayed  back  and  forth,  moving  forward  with  the  greatest 
effort,  lifting  his  feet  with  difficulty,  and  sinking  his  staff 
in  the  hollows. 

"Lean  on  me,  my  poor  dear,"  said  the  old  wife,  offer- 
ing her  arm. 

The  masterful  head  of  the  family  could  no  longer  take 
a  single  step  without  their  aid. 

Then  began  their  slow,  painful  pilgrimage  among  the 
graves. 

The  guide  was  still  exploring  the  spot  bristling  with 
crosses,  spelling  out  the  names,  and  hesitating  before  the 
faded  lettering.  Rene  was  doing  the  same  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  Chichi  went  on  alone,  the  wind  whirl- 
ing her  black  veil  around  her,  and  making  the  little  curls 
escape  from  under  her  mourning  hat  every  time  she 
leaned  over  to  decipher  a  name.  Her  daintily  shod  feet 
sunk  deep  into  the  ruts,  and  she  had  to  gather  her  skirts 
about  her  in  order  to  move  more  comfortably — revealing 
thus  at  every  step  evidences  of  the  joy  of  living,  of  hid- 
den beauty,  of  consummated  love  following  her  course 
through  this  land  of  death  and  desolation. 

In  the  distance  sounded  feebly  her  father's  voice : 

"Not  yet?" 

The  two  elders  were  growing  impatient,  anxious  to 
find  their  son's  resting  place  as  soon  as  possible. 

A  half  hour  thus  dragged  by  without  any  result — 
always  unfamiliar  names,  anonymous  crosses  or  the  num- 
bers of  other  regiments.  Don  Marcelo  was  no  longer 
able  to  stand.  Their  passage  across  the  irregularities  of 
the  soft  earth  had  been  torment  for  him.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  despair.  .  .  .  Ay,  they  would  never  find  Julio's 
remains!     The  parents,  too,  had  been  scrutinizing  the 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  477 

plots  nearest  them,  bending  sadly  before  cross  after 
cross.  They  stopped  before  a  long,  narrow  hillock,  and 
read  the  name.  .  .  .  No,  he  was  not  there,  either ;  and 
they  continued  desperately  along  the  painful  path  of 
alternate  hopes  and  disappointments. 

It  was  Chichi  who  notified  them  with  a  cry,  "Here.  .  .  . 
Here  it  is !"  The  old  folks  tried  to  run,  alm<  st  falling  at 
every  step.  All  the  family  were  soon  grouped  around 
a  heap  of  earth  in  the  vague  outline  of  a  bier,  and  begin- 
ning to  be  covered  with  herbage.  At  the  head  was  a 
cross  with  letters  cut  in  deep  with  the  point  of  a  knife, 
the  kind  deed  of  some  of  his  comrades-at-arms — 
"DESNOYERS."  .  .  .  Then  in  military  abbreviations, 
the  rank,  regiment  and  company. 

A  long  silence.  Dona  Luisa  had  knelt  instantly,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  cross — those  great,  bloodshot  eyes 
that  could  no  longer  weep.  Till  then,  tears  had  been  con- 
stantly in  her  eyes,  but  now  they  deserted  her  as  though 
overcome  by  the  immensity  of  a  grief  incapable  of  ex- 
pressing itself  in  the  usual  ways. 

The  father  was  staring  at  the  rustic  g^ave  in  dumb 
amazement.  His  son  was  there,  there  forever !  .  .  .  and 
he  would  never  see  him  again!  He  imagined  him  sleep- 
ing unshrouded  below,  in  direct  contact  with  the  earth, 
just  as  Death  had  surprised  him  in  his  miserable  and 
heroic  old  uniform.  He  recalled  the  exquisite  care  which 
the  lad  had  always  given  his  body — the  long  bath,  the 
massage,  the  invigorating  exercise  of  boxing  and  fencing, 
the  cold  shower,  the  elegant  and  subtle  perfume  ...  all 
that  he  might  come  to  this !  .  .  .  that  he  might  be  interred 
just  wl  ere  he  had  fallen  in  his  tracks,  like  a  wornout 
beast  of  burden! 

The  bereaved  father  wished  to  transfer  his  son  imme- 
diately f'om  the  official  burial  fields,  but  he  could  not  do 
it  yet.       -s  soon  as  possible  it  should  be  done,  and  he 


478    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

would  erect  for  him  a  mausoleum  fit  for  a  king.  .  .  . 
And  what  good  would  that  do?  He  would  merely  be 
changing  the  location  of  a  mass  of  bones,  but  his  body, 
his  physical  semblance — all  that  had  contributed  to  the 
charm  of  his  personality  would  be  mixed  with  the  earth. 
The  son  of  the  rich  Desnoyers  would  have  become  an  in- 
separcble  part  of  a  poor  field  in  Champagne.  Ah,  the 
pity  of  it  all !  And  for  this,  had  he  worked  so  hard  and 
so  long  to  accumulate  his  millions?  .  .  . 

He  could  never  know  how  Julio's  death  had  happened. 
Nobody  could  tell  him  his  last  words.  He  was  ignorant 
as  io  whether  his  end  had  been  instantaneous,  overwhelm- 
ing— ^his  idol  going  out  of  the  world  with  his  usual  gay 
smile  on  his  lips,  or  whether  he  had  endured  long  hours 
of  agony  abandoned  in  the  field,  writhing  like  a  reptile 
or  passing  through  phases  of  hellish  torment  before  col- 
lapsing in  merciful  oblivion.  He  was  also  ignorant  of 
just  how  much  was  beneath  this  mound — whether  an  en- 
tire body  discreetly  touched  by  the  hand  of  Death,  or  an 
assemblage  of  shapeless  remnants  from  the  devastating 
hurricane  of  steel !  .  .  .  And  he  would  never  see  him 
again !  And  that  Julio  who  had  been  filling  his  thoughts 
would  become  simply  a  memor}%  a  name  that  would  live 
while  his  parents  lived,  fading  away,  little  by  little,  after 
they  had  disappeared !  .  .  . 

He  was  startled  to  hear  a  moan,  a  sob.  .  .  .  Then  he 
recognized  dully  that  they  were  his  own,  that  he  had  been 
accompanying  his  reflections  with  groans  of  grief. 

His  wife  was  still  at  his  feet,  kneeling,  alone  w'.ih  her 
heartbreak,  fixing  her  dry  eyes  on  the  cross  with  a  gaze 
of  hypnotic  tenacity.  .  .  .  There  was  her  son  near  her 
knees,  lying  stretched  out  as  she  had  so  often  watched 
him  when  sleeping  in  his  cradle !  .  .  .  The  father's  sobs 
were  wringing  her  heart,  too,  but  with  an  unbearable  de- 
pression, without  his  wrathful  exasperation.     And  she 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  479 

would  never  see  him  again !  .  .  .  Could  it  be  possible !  .  .  , 

Chichi's  presence  interrupted  the  despairing  thoughts 
of  her  parents.  She  had  run  to  the  automobile,  and  was 
returning  with  an  armful  of  flowers.  She  hung  a  wreath 
on  the  cross  and  placed  a  great  spray  of  blossoms  at  the 
foot.  Then  she  scattered  a  shower  of  petals  over  the  en- 
tire surface  of  the  grave,  sadly,  intensely,  as  though  per- 
forming a  religious  rite,  accompanying  the  offering  with 
her  outspoken  thoughts — "For  you  who  so  loved  life  for 
its  beauties  and  pleasures !  .  .  .  for  you  who  knew  so 
well  how  to  make  yourself  beloved!"  .  .  .  And  as  her 
tears  fell,  her  affectionate  memories  were  as  full  of  ad- 
miration as  of  grief.  Had  she  not  been  his  sister,  she 
would  have  like  to  have  been  his  beloved. 

And  having  exhausted  the  rain  of  flower-petals,  she 
wandered  away  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  lamentations  of 
her  parents. 

Before  the  uselessness  of  his  bitter  plaints,  Don  Mar- 
celo's  former  dominant  character  had  come  to  life,  rag- 
ing against  destiny. 

He  looked  at  the  horizon  where  so  often  he  had 
imagined  the  adversary  to  be,  and  clenched  his  fists  in  a 
paroxysm  of  fury.  His  disordered  mind  believed  that  it 
saw  the  Beast,  the  Nemesis  of  humanity.  And  how  much 
longer  would  the  evil  be  allowed  to  go  unpunished?  .  .  . 

There  was  no  justice;  the  world  was  ruled  by  blind 
chance ; — all  lies,  mere  words  of  consolation  in  order  that 
mankind  might  exist  unterrified  by  the  hopeless  abandon 
in  which  it  lived ! 

It  appeared  to  him  that  from  afar  was  echoing  the  gal- 
lop of  the  four  Apocalyptic  horsemen,  riding  rough-shod 
over  all  his  fellow-creatures.  He  saw  the  strong  and 
brutal  giant  with  the  sword  of  War,  the  archer  with  his 
repulsive  smile,  shooting  his  pestilential  arrows,  the  bald- 
headed  miser  with  the  scales  of  Famine,  the  hard-riding 


48o    FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

spectre  with  the  scythe  of  Death.  He  recognized  them 
as  only  divinities,  familiar  and  terrible — which  had  made 
their  presence  felt  by  mankind.  All  the  rest  was  a 
dream.    The  four  horsemen  were  the  reality.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  by  the  mysterious  process  of  telepathy,  he 
seemed  to  read  the  thoughts  of  the  one  grieving  at  his 
feet. 

The  mother,  impelled  by  her  own  sorrow,  was  thinking 
of  that  of  others.  She,  too,  was  looking  toward  the  dis- 
tant horizon.  There  she  seemed  to  see  a  procession  of 
the  enemy,  grieving  in  the  same  way  as  were  her  family. 
She  saw  Elena  with  her  daughters  going  in  and  out 
among  the  burial  grounds,  seeking  a  loved  one,  falling  on 
their  knees  before  a  cross.  Ay,  this  mournful  satisfac- 
tion, she  could  never  know  completely !  It  would  be  for- 
ever impossible  for  her  to  pass  to  the  opposite  side  in 
search  of  the  other  grave,  for,  even  after  some  time  had 
passed  by,  she  could  never  find  it.  The  beloved  body  of 
Otto  would  have  disappeared  forever  in  one  of  the  name- 
less pits  which  they  had  just  passed. 

"O  Lord,  why  did  we  ever  come  to  these  lands  ?  Why 
did  we  not  continue  living  in  the  land  where  we  were 
bom?"  .  .  . 

Desnoyers,  too,  uniting  his  thoughts  with  hers,  was 
seeing  again  the  pampas,  the  immense  green  plains  of  the 
ranch  where  he  had  become  acquainted  with  his  wife. 
Again  he  could  hear  the  tread  of  the  herds.  He  recalled 
Madariaga  on  tranquil  nights  proclaiming,  under  the 
splendor  of  the  stars,  the  joys  of  peace,  the  sacred 
brotherhood  of  these  people  of  most  diverse  extraction, 
united  by  labor,  abundance  and  the  lack  of  political  am- 
bition. 

And  as  his  thoughts  swung  back  to  the  lost  son  he, 
too,  exclaimed  with  his  wife,  "Oh,  why  did  we  ever 
come?  .  .  ."  He,  too,  with  the  solidarity  of  grief,  began 


THE  BURIAL  FIELDS  481 

to  sympathize  with  those  on  the  other  side  of  the  battle 
front.  They  were  suffering  just  as  he  was ;  they  had  lost 
their  sons.    Human  grief  is  the  same  everywhere. 

But  then  he  revolted  against  his  commiseration.  Karl 
had  been  an  advocate  of  this  wslt.  He  was  among  those 
who  had  looked  upon  war  as  the  perfect  state  for  man- 
kind, who  had  prepared  it  with  their  provocations.  It 
was  just  that  War  should  devour  his  sons ;  he  ought  not 
to  bewail  their  loss.  .  .  .  But  he  who  had  always  loved 
Peace !  He  who  had  only  one  son,  only  one !  .  .  .  and 
now  he  was  losing  him  forever!  .  .  . 

He  was  going  to  die;  he  was  sure  that  he  was  going 
to  die.  .  .  .  Only  a  few  months  of  life  were  left  in  him. 
And  his  pitiful,  devoted  companion  kneeling  at  his  feet, 
she,  too,  would  soon  pass  away.  She  could  not  long  sur- 
vive the  blow  which  they  had  just  received.  There  was 
nothing  further  for  them  to  do ;  nobody  needed  them  any 
longer. 

Their  daughter  was  thinking  only  of  herself,  of  found- 
ing a  separate  home  interest — with  the  hard  instinct  of 
independence  which  separates  children  from  their  parents 
in  order  that  humanity  may  continue  its  work  of  reno- 
vation. 

Julio  was  the  only  one  who  would  have  prolonged  the 
family,  passing  on  the  name.  The  Desnoyers  had  died; 
his  daughter's  children  would  be  Lacour.  .  .  .  All  was 
ended. 

Don  Marcelo  even  felt  a  certain  satisfaction  in  think- 
ing of  his  approaching  death.  More  than  anything  else, 
he  wished  to  pass  out  of  the  world.  He  no  longer  had 
any  curiosity  as  to  the  end  of  this  war  in  which  he  had 
been  so  interested.  Whatever  the  end  might  be,  it  would 
be  sure  to  turn  out  badly.  Although  the  Beast  might  be 
mutilated,  it  would  again  come  forth  years  afterward,  as 
the  eternal  curse  of  mankind.  .  .  .  For  him  the  only  im- 


482     FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE 

portant  thing  now  was  that  the  war  had  robbed  him  of 
his  son.  All  was  gloomy,  all  was  black.  The  world  was 
going  to  its  ruin.  .  .  .  He  was  going  to  rest. 

Chichi  had  clambered  up  on  the  hillock  which  con- 
tained, perhaps,  more  than  their  dead.  With  furrowed 
brow,  she  was  contemplating  the  plain.  Graves  .  .  . 
graves  everywhere!  The  recollection  of  Julio  had  al- 
ready passed  to  second  place  in  her  mind.  She  could 
not  bring  him  back,  no  matter  how  much  she  might  weep. 

This  vision  of  the  fields  of  death  made  her  think  all 
the  more  of  the  living.  As  her  eyes  roved  from  side  to 
side,  she  tried,  with  her  hands,  to  keep  down  the  whirling 
of  her  wind-tossed  skirts.  Rene  was  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  knoll,  and  several  times  after  a  sweeping  glance 
at  the  numberless  mounds  around  them,  she  looked 
thoughtfully  at  him,  as  though  trying  to  establish  a  rela- 
tionship between  her  husband  and  those  below.  And  he 
had  exposed  his  life  in  combats  just  as  these  men  had 
done!  .  .  . 

"And  you,  my  poor  darling,"  she  continued  aloud. 
"At  this  very  moment  you,  too,  might  be  lying  here  under 
a  heap  of  earth  with  a  wooden  cross  at  your  head,  just 
like  these  poor  unfortunates!" 

The  sub-lieutenant  smiled  sadly.    Yes,  it  was  so. 

"Come  here ;  climb  up  here !"  said  Chichi  impetuously. 
"I  want  to  give  you  something!" 

As  soon  as  he  approached  her,  she  flung  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  pressed  him  against  the  warm  softness 
of  her  breast,  exhaling  a  perfume  of  life  and  love,  and 
kissed  him  passionately  without  a  thought  of  her  brother, 
without  seeing  her  aged  parents  grieving  below  them  and 
longing  to  die.  .  .  .  And  her  skirts,  freed  by  the  breeze, 
molded  her  figure  in  the  superb  sweep  of  the  curves  of 
a  Grecian  vase. 


lii;«i?HMmS«S.^.';'°^*'-  l-'BRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  675  505     2 


